Their Best to Live
by vickitata14
Summary: "Humans try their best to live and end up becoming stronger." 64 fics for the 64 Damn Prompts challenge on LiveJournal. Updates daily/every other day. Not T-rated throughout, just a few themes.
1. 2 AM

**With the end of TYD looming on the horizon, and a whole summer ahead of me, I've decided to undertake the "64 Damn Prompts" challenge from livejournal. I conducted a poll on tumblr; the fandom of choice over the past 24 hours was, as you can see, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood. This is my first foray into FMA fanfic, so I'm really excited! The fics will cover a wide range of characters, but will probably focus on the relationships between Ed, Al, Riza, Roy, and Winry most often, with the occasional Maes Hughes (Nobody Dies AU, anybody?), Ling/Greed, Lan Fan, May, Homunculi, etc. making their appearances.**

 **We're gonna start out with some nice Alphonse angst, because who doesn't need more of that in their life? (ME! Except apparently I DO, because, ya know, I wrote it.) The prompt (I'll be using them as my chapter titles) is 2 AM. Betcha can't guess where that's going.**

 **I don't own FMA. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Alphonse, you should be sleeping."

The boy looked up from where he sat, knees curled to his chest, only to realize that, even in this position, he still had to look down to see Grandma Pinako. Her hand rested kindly on his massive metal shin, but he couldn't feel a thing. He looked away.

"I can't."

Pinako folded her hands again, her expression inscrutable behind the thick lenses of her glasses. The thin line of her mouth could have been surprise or concern or any number of reactions, but Alphonse somehow got the feeling that she had been expecting this.

She asked anyway. "Can't how?"

. . .

The first night, he had attributed it to sheer trauma and residual adrenaline.

. . .

The second night, he told himself he wanted to be there if his brother woke up.

. . .

The third night, he rationalized that he must have fallen asleep at some point and not noticed.

. . .

The fourth night, he watched every movement of the clock until the sun rose, and he knew.

. . .

Al hugged himself tightly. Or at least he thought he did-he couldn't feel anything. He should have known the minute he understood what Ed had done to save him. Scientifically, logically, it was obvious, the only possibly outcome. Teacher would be ashamed that it took him so long to realize.

"I think-" he finally managed to say-"I mean, I guess-I think, you know, without my body..."

"There's no need to sleep," Pinako finished gravely, placing her hand against his leg once more. "I wondered."

Al gazed out the window. "It took me four days to figure it out."

"You had more important things on your mind," Pinako reminded him-more gruffly than she meant to-dropping her hand so that Al wouldn't notice how it curled into a fist.

Al turned wistfully-not that anyone could tell-toward the lopsided silhouette of his brother in the bed at the other end of the room. "I still do." He looked suddenly back at Pinako. "Does he know, do you think?"

His words came out tremulous and small, the voice of a boy echoing through the hollow form of a man, and it broke Pinako's heart.

"I don't think he knows much of anything right now," she replied. "He's still quite heavily sedated. Helps with the nightmares, I think. That must be one good thing about not sleeping, eh?"

Al stayed silent, not wanting to tell her that the nightmares came anyway, twice as intensely to a waking mind with nothing physical to ground or distract it, and that he couldn't turn them off. Couldn't escape. Couldn't forget the screams, the all-encompassing whiteness that stole his memories from the moment they put their hands on the circle until he found himself, too large and strangely senseless, on the ground in a pool of Edward's blood. Every minute was a reliving, and a tortured question: could he have done something to prevent all this?

Pinako looked at him, eyes glittering briefly beneath her spectacles, and Al knew he didn't have to explain himself. She knew. And she also knew that he had to bear it somehow. So they told themselves that at least, without sleep, there could be no nightmares-only memories. No need to admit that those were worse.

"What do you do all night, then?"

Alphonse nodded once more towards the bed. "Watch over Brother." _Rehearse transmutations in my head. Try to remember Mom's face. Wish that I were dead._

Pinako hummed in understanding, though exactly how much she had understood, Alphonse was not quite sure. "He's recovering quite well, you know. He's strong. We might be able to start fitting him with automail in less than a year if we're lucky."

"And then we'll match!" The optimism in Al's voice was forced, but not entirely devoid of the child-like whimsy his words suggested. Perhaps he was only trying to make the best of a bad situation, but he had to find his comfort where he could. And if he could remember, if only for a moment, that he _was_ still a child...then that had to be enough for now.

"Gran'mama?"

Winry, small, half-awake, complete with bedhead, stood in the doorway, clutching a teddy bear by one leg and rubbing her eyes.

"Goodness," Pinako exclaimed, "What are you doing awake, Winry? It's past two!"

Winry pursed her lips and tried to scowl, but ended up yawning. "What're _you_ doing awake?"

"Talking to Alphonse. He can't sleep."

The double meaning of the phrase was lost on Winry, and she blinked at Al a few times before walking over to him and handing him her teddy bear. "Here," she said gravely. "He always helps me sleep."

Pinako chuckled-there was really nothing to do but laugh or cry at this hour, and she preferred not to cry-before taking Winry's hand and guiding her gently to the doorway. "Say goodnight to Alphonse."

"'night," Winry mumbled, leaning against her grandmother, already mostly asleep.

"Goodnight Winry," Al called softly after her. "Thank you!"

After Pinako had put Winry to bed again, she returned to stand at the door of the boys' bedroom. Al was holding the teddy bear out in front of him and telling it stories about his mother's apple pie.

"It's the best thing I've ever tasted," he was saying. "Brother would try and fit a whole piece in his mouth at once and Mom would scold him, 'don't be greedy, Edward,' but she would be laughing.

"That's why we tried to bring her back," he continued. "Not because of the apple pie. Because she was so kind and so good and-" Pinako watched his enormous fists tighten around the bear's arms- "Because she loved us. And we're just kids. We need her."

His voice shook with the tears Pinako knew he could not shed.

So she shed them for him.

* * *

 **Now that wasn't too painful was it? (Yes, Vic, it was, please stop this at once.) Good :D**

 **As always, please read and review. I'm hoping to update either daily or every other day (presuming I stick with one-shots, which is by no means certain). The next prompt is "metaphor."**

 **-Vic**


	2. Metaphor

**Why hello again! Less than 24 hours later, and here I am with the second installment. I currently have a rather awful cold and couldn't sleep last night, so I wrote this instead, finally passed out at like 6am, slept until 2pm and then spent the afternoon rereading and editing. I decided to publish tonight instead of waiting because I'd like to get on a schedule of posting between 7-10 pm every/every other day.**

 **I came up with a couple different ideas on how to approach this prompt, and idk, but I really love the final result. I hope you enjoy!**

 **I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.**

* * *

Roy sits slouched in a cafe one evening after leaving Headquarters for the day. The fingers of his right hand are teasing some object hidden inside his pocket, while those on his left drum the table in a steady _buh buh buh duh_ , and the brim of his cap pulled low over his eyes disguises whatever expression might be on his face. People around him whisper:

 _Is that-?_ _It is!_

 _General Mustang!_

 _In my cafe!_

 _What's he doing here?_

 _Shh don't disturb him!_

He pays them no mind. General Roy Mustang is waiting for someone.

"Sir!"

He finally looks up, tilting his head so as to see past the brim of his hat, which he doesn't bother to lift. Riza Hawkeye stands smartly at attention in front of his table, her back straight, her salute crisp, her expression neutral. The only thing out of place in her whole appearance is one wisp of hair that clings damply to her cheek. It curls upward, pointing the observer's gaze toward her eyes, rich and warm like chocolate, yet hard and gleaming like polished wood. She blinks, and suddenly Roy realizes he's been staring.

"Lieutenant."

She blinks at him again. He tries to remember the plan. He knows he had one. He would never have come here otherwise.

"You summoned me here, Sir," she prompts, still at attention.

Yes, yes he had done that hadn't he? He hadn't planned for the salute-stupid, he knows, but it's such a part of the routine that it hadn't even occurred to him-and it's throwing him off. Maybe if she stops...

"At ease, Lieutenant."

She clasps her hands behind her back and spaces her feet, but her expression remains bland and her posture rigid. Exactly as it should be. The perfect soldier. The perfect lieutenant. The perfect...

"Sir?"

Dammit, he's staring again.

"Have a seat," he says. It's supposed to be an invitation, but it sounds like an order.

"Thank you, Sir."

She sits down across from him, her back flush with the chair, her hands folded in her lap. Roy leans forward, his hands on the tabletop, fingers laced.

"How are things at the office?" _Gods_ , he sounds like an idiot.

"Everything's in order, Sir. There are some papers you need to sign about the Ishvalan highway system. They're time sensitive, so it will be best if you get that done tomorrow."

Roy nods. "Make sure they're on my desk in the morning, then."

"Yessir. Sir?"

Roy cocks his head to indicate that he's listening.

"With all due respect, Sir, we didn't have to meet in a cafe to have this conversation."

His fingers twitch slightly. The thing in his pocket seems to be burning a hole into his leg. He unclasps his hands, then sets them both palms-down on the table.

"Right you are, Lieutenant. So let's order some dinner."

She raises an eyebrow, but accepts his proposition with an amicable nod and gestures to a waiter that they wish to order. She asks for water and a cold sandwich. He asks for the chicken and a bottle of red wine. Riza's eyebrow arches slightly higher.

"Is it a special occasion tonight, Sir?"

Roy shrugs and leans back in his chair. "It's a free country, isn't it, Lieutenant?"

"Yessir," is her only response, but his snark relaxes her. It's more like him than the stilted conversation they began with.

Her sandwich and water arrive, and she's prepared to wait for the General to receive his food as well, but he waves her on. The moment of relaxation is passed; they have not eaten a meal together since he studied at her father's house, and she feels strangely self-conscious taking a bite of ham-on-rye under his scrutiny. Not that she's sure he's watching her, because she doesn't dare look up. Growing suddenly warm, she takes a sip of her water, then surreptitiously touches her neck, hoping the condensation from the glass will cool her slightly.

The waiter brings the bottle of wine, along with two glasses. Before she can protest, Roy has filled both glasses and handed one to her. He inclines his own in her direction-a mock toast-and then takes a drink. Not wishing to appear rude, she sips her own glass. The wine does nothing to alleviate her mysterious warmth, but it does settle her nerves a bit, and she takes another, longer sip. They sit in companionable silence for a while, drinking their wine. Roy's food arrives.

"It's thanks to you, you know," she says suddenly.

Roy looks up from his chicken. "What is?"

She gestures around her. "That this is a free country. It's thanks to you."

Her words set off bells in his head, and his right hand closes over the lump in his pocket. He can make this work to his advantage.

"Well I think the Elric brothers had a lot to do with it, too," he replies, laughing.

She shakes her head. "Where would the Elric brothers be without you?" she demands. She hasn't once called him "Sir" in the past three minutes.

Roy shuts his eyes for a moment, thinking. Envisioning the possible ways this conversation could go. Formulating the perfect words.

"Or you?" He challenges her. "Where would they be without you?"

"Probably dead," she replies without missing a beat. Then she hesitates. "As would you be."

It's all he can do to keep from smirking. He's got her.

"Exactly," he murmurs, slipping his hand into his pocket.

She inclines her head. "What?"

"I would be dead without you, Lieutenant." He clenches his fist. "We both know it." He draws his hand out of his pocket. "I could never ask-" His left hand resumes its nervous drumming. "-for a more loyal-" _buh buh buh duh_ "-or more capable-" _buh buh buh duh_ "-or more beautiful-" _BUH BUH BUH DUH_ "-companion-" His right hand falls heavily on the table in front of her. "-in all my endeavors." He draws back his hand, leaving behind the object from his pocket.

Riza looks down at the thing he set before her. It's a queen. A queen from a chess set. Exquisitely carved and polished out of wood the same color as her eyes. She looks back up at him.

"Why are you giving this to me?" she asks carefully.

He takes a deep breath. "Well you can't very well go wearing a diamond ring around the office, Lieutenant."

Her eyes widen, and her mouth shifts, first into a little "o," and then gradually into a smile. Her fingers close around the little piece of wood.

"Thank you, Sir," she says. "I believe I've been missing this piece for quite a while."

His hand settles gently on top of hers.

"So have I."

* * *

 **Awwwwwwww so sappy. Idk though, I had fun trying to strike the balance between romance and their profound professional relationship. Basically I just love them and they are my OTP to end all OTP's. This will probably not be the last we see of them here.**

 **As always, please read and review, and if anybody has any suggestions or requests for future themes, feel free to PM me!**

 **Much love, Vic**


	3. Sky

**Hello again! Just a few notes on the timeline of this chapter (whose prompt was "Sky") before we start:**

 **It starts as Ed, Al, and Major Armstrong are leaving East City for Resembool after their disastrous run-in with Scar. Then it skips to the day after they meet Dr Marcoh and discover the existence of the Philosopher's Stone, and finally ends in the evening after they finally arrive at the Rockbells'.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Edward Elric never fancied himself a sentimental person-it was always Alphonse who picked up stray cats and constantly had to remind him to consider other people's feelings. Yet as the train groaned to life beneath him and began to rumble out of the East City station, he felt his heart leap. For the first time in three years, they were going back to Resembool. For the first time in three years, they were going home.

 _No_ , he reminded himself firmly, shaking his head. _Not home_. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

They had no home anymore.

. . .

In the morning, Major Alex Louis Armstrong looked pensively at the boy in the seat across from him-a boy too young to carry the things he had to carry on his narrow shoulders. Of course, anybody's shoulders were narrow compared to the Major's, but what could he say? Such broad physique had been passed down in the Armstrong family for generations. That was not the point.

The point was that just the day before, he had seen that same boy-who now slept so peacefully to the swaying rhythm of the train-stare with unbridled hunger at an artifact so powerful that its manufacturer had deserted the army and gone into hiding. He had seen Edward Elric's fingers twitch, watched him battle everything inside himself that urged him to take the Philosopher's Stone by force. Even before that, he had stood at the young alchemist's side in a battle with a madman that almost cost both the boy and his brother their lives.

"You must be glad of a chance to return home," he had said after the fight, as they made sure every single piece of Alphonse's body was safely tucked in the transport crate.

"Mhm," Al had hummed cheerfully. "Brother and I-"

"We're not going home." Edward's interruption had been cold and unyielding. "We're just going to visit our mechanic."

Al had tried to scold him, but Edward had only set his jaw and looked away, and now, as their destination drew near, Major Armstrong sat and wondered if the boy really no longer considered the place he grew up his home.

Then again, the Major reflected, the brothers had done quite a lot of growing up since they left Resembool.

Perhaps they felt they didn't quite belong there anymore.

. . .

Ed stood outside the Rockbell automail shop that evening, looking up at the sky as it grew dark. He presented a somewhat lopsided figure, with only one arm and a temporary prosthetic-a couple inches too short-in place of his left leg. Only moments before, Winry had thrown him out of her workshop, chucking a wrench at his head and yelling at him to: "Stop hovering, numbskull, and let me work!"

"Edward Elric!"

Ed jumped, wheeling around. Thrown off balance, he fell heavily on his right hip, left arm flailing.

"Dammit, Major," he cursed as he stood up again, rejecting Major Armstrong's proffered hand and scowling at the enormous man who had somehow managed to come up right behind him without his noticing. "Why do you have to sneak up on me like that?"

"My apologies," rumbled the Major, his mustache quivering as he spoke.

Edward sighed and turned to look once more at the sky, which had faded totally from blue to black in the time it took him to get back on his feet.

"Eh," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "It's no big deal." He grinned wryly, gesturing to the empty socket on his right shoulder. "I've had much worse, after all."

Major Armstrong did not laugh. He only clasped his hands behind his back and joined Ed in gazing up into the darkness, where stars were just beginning to glimmer, and they stood in silence for long minutes.

"Mom used to take us outside to look at the stars."

Ed spoke so suddenly and without motion that it was the Major's turn to jump.

"Your mother knew the stars?"

Ed shrugged. "I guess. She used to point out the shapes they made. Al and I-we used to make up our own names for them.

"Haven't thought about them in years though," he added, frowning at the horizon. "There are fewer stars in East City."

The Major turned to look down at him, but Edward's gaze remained fixedly on the sky, and so Armstrong's eyes returned there as well.

"Stargazing," he intoned finally, "is an ancient art that has been passed down in the Armstrong family for generations."

Edward snorted. The Major payed him no mind, only pointed to one patch of stars directly above them.

"That's the Xingese Viper..." he began.

. . .

 _Mom, Mom! What's that one called?_

Ed and Al had dared each other to a spinning competition, and when they both ended up on their backs, feeling the ground roll beneath them, they decided to stay there and look for constellations. Their mother had come outside, laughed at their slightly cross-eyed expressions, and joined them on the ground, lying between them and pulling them close to her.

 _I don't know Al, why don't you give it one?_

 _It kinda looks like a flower!_

 _Pfft, dummy! It looks like a sword!_

 _Mom! He called me dummy!_

 _Did not!_

 _Did to!_

. . .

"...just harder to see, you know."

Ed shook himself out of his reverie.

"Sorry, Major, what?"

Armstrong was looking down at him earnestly, his eyes glinting in the rising moonlight.

"There are no fewer stars in the city, you know, Edward Elric," he repeated. "They are only harder to see.

"You see that extremely bright cluster of stars, near the horizon?" he continued, pointing, before Edward had more time to think on his previous statement.

Ed nodded. The Major, however, did not speak again for several seconds, and Ed was just getting ready to prompt him when he opened his mouth again, his eyes unfocused, as though staring at something far in the distance.

"When the war in Ishval was at its height," he said, "when cities burned so that the midnight sky was as bright as day, those stars shone directly above us: almost the only stars we could see.

Do you know what that cluster of stars is called, Edward Elric?"

Ed shook his head.

"In Ishval, they are called the River of Light, and some consider them to be holy. But-" The Major's hands were shaking- "Do you see the group just above them? The constellation that resembles a wolf?"

Ed couldn't see a wolf. He thought maybe he could see a very misshapen mouse if he squinted, but he nodded anyway.

"When we looked up to the sky at night, Edward Elric-when we State Alchemists, we dogs of the military-when we saw only those stars in the midst of the fire and blood that stained the sky...We called those stars the Tears of the Dog."

The Major looked solemnly down at him. "Do you understand what I am trying to tell you, Fullmetal Alchemist?"

Ed stared hard at the stars on the horizon. He thought he understood, but he wasn't sure he wanted to say it out loud.

"In Ishval," he began, "the Tears of the Dog were the only thing you could see..."

Major Armstrong nodded. "But here in the country," he prompted, "surrounded by peace and the kindness of friends..."

Ed turned his gaze-not upwards-but towards the house, where he could see light streaming softly from Winry's workshop.

"Here," he said, his voice soft, "Here, there is a whole sky full of stars."

* * *

 **Well there you have it! I knew I wanted to write something more Ed-centric for this chapter, and then ImmortalxSnow (my sun and moon and steadfast Northern Star in all things fanfic) suggested stargazing for a take on "Sky." My boyfriend advised including Major Armstrong, if only for a discussion of stargazing as an ancient art passed down in the Armstrong family for generations ;) My undying thanks to both (for this and for all you do). And also my thanks to my sister, who is my sure-to-be-long-suffering beta, and fellow FMA addict. If you're reading it, it's because it passed her muster.**

 **As always, please read and review, and if you have any suggestions or requests, please PM me! The next prompt is "lost scene!"**

 **Much love, Vic**


	4. Lost Scene

**So I looked at the prompt for today and it took me a while to finesse this idea. First I thought of doing something about Xerxes, since it's a lost city, then about doing an in depth study of a scene we don't SEE in the anime. Then I thought, what if I did something about moments that never were? Not quite an AU but just a...what could have been. And so we have this. It's pretty short, but it was fun, and I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Trisha Elric didn't cry on her son's wedding day. Her eyes didn't grow misty as she straightened his bowtie and tucked his boutonniere into his lapel, then did the same for Alphonse. No laughing sob caught in her throat as Edward swept her up in his arms, buried his face in her shoulder, whispered, "I love you, Mom," so only she could hear. She didn't press the back of her hand against her cheek to catch an escaped tear when he gave her his widest smile and turned to enter the church, his brother at his side.

Sarah Rockbell didn't cry as she helped Winry do the buttons up the back of her dress, as she fixed the veil behind her bangs, handed her her flowers, helped her step into the baby blue shoes she wore under her skirt. She didn't blink back tears as she ran her hands gently down her daughter's arms, catching her hands and pressing them against her own heart. She didn't sniffle a bit before she hugged Paninya and thanked her for being such a true friend to her daughter. She didn't simultaneously laugh and sob as she embraced Trisha on the church steps, just before they became family at last.

Dr. Yuriy Rockbell's breath didn't catch in his throat when his daughter turned to face him and he saw her in her wedding dress for the first time, radiant in satin and tulle, eyes shining with tears of her own. He didn't squeeze her hands as he leaned in to kiss her cheek, then caught her up in a crushing hug to whisper, "Your mother and I are so proud of you." His hands didn't tremble as they drew a fine chain around her neck: a wedding present, a tiny locket made of automail. His heart didn't swell when the music began and he offered her his arm, when he helped her take her first steps toward her new life.

. . .

Winry was quiet during the wedding reception. She sat at the table with Ed, Al and Paninya, looking out over the guests—at General Mustang waltzing awkwardly with Lieutenant Hawkeye, Pinako drinking brandy and chatting with Izumi and her husband, Major Armstrong sparkling silently above the whole crowd—but Ed could tell her mind was elsewhere. He took her hand.

"What's wrong?"

She shook her head, eyes refocusing. "Nothing," she said softly, and leaned her head against Ed's shoulder. "I was just thinking that Mom and Dad would have loved this."

Ed cast his eyes over the party now—at Xiao-Mei about to take a hunk out of the cake, at May scolding her, at Gracia and Elicia Hughes talking quietly at their table to Sheska, perhaps sharing memories of Lieutenant Colonel Hughes—Ed had never gotten used to thinking of him as a brigadier general. Al had left the table and joined May in distracting Xiao-Mei; his hand rested subtly on her lower back, and Ed wondered briefly if perhaps there wouldn't be another wedding soon...

"Yeah," he murmured back to her. "Mom would have loved it too."

Winry looked up at him.

"And your father?"

. . .

Van Hohenheim didn't cry on his son's wedding day. He didn't smile mistily as he wrapped he arm around Trisha's waist and watched Edward at the altar with Winry by his side. He didn't swallow a lump in his throat when he shook Ed's hand and hugged him after the ceremony. He didn't do so many things...

But Edward wished he could have.

* * *

 **No further notes on this chapter. As always, please read, review, and PM me if you have any suggestions or requests!**

 **The next prompt is "degrees."**

 **Much love, Vic**


	5. Degrees

**Not much to say in the way of prefatory notes for this chapter, except that, despite how short it is already, it's actually longer than I expected it to be. Little Ed is the star of the show here, with a little bit of little Alphonse to help set the stage. Enjoy!**

* * *

Ed woke up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding fit to burst from his scrawny rib cage.

 _It's wrong. It's all wrong._

He tried to disentangle himself as quietly as possible from the blankets. Alphonse was sleeping fitfully beside him, and he didn't want to wake him again. Al had already woken once before, and Ed had started awake to find him standing at the bedside, pale and shaking, tear tracks running down his face.

"What's up, Al?" he had mumbled, struggling to sit up.

"Brother, what if it doesn't work?" Al had whispered fearfully. "What if we can't bring her back?"

Ed had peeled back the bedcovers, allowing his brother to crawl into bed beside him.

"It'll work," he had assured him. "We've gone over everything; there's no way it won't. We've done all the calculations and weighed all the ingredients. We know the theory, Al. Plus we have all the lessons that Teacher taught us, and we checked the transmutation circle against our notes a thousand times. Everything is ready. This time tomorrow, Mom will be with us again. I promise you, Al."

Now Al was asleep, finally peaceful, but Edward's thoughts were racing. All the questions that he had put to rest only hours before had returned to plague him with a vengeance, and he needed to make sure that what he had told his brother was true, that everything would work. So he pushed off the covers, and he made it out of the bed without waking Al. Unfortunately, the floor creaked loudly as soon as he set foot on it, and Alphonse stirred.

"Mm," he hummed sleepily. "Where'ya goin'?"

"Nowhere," Ed soothed, cursing inwardly. "I'm just checking something."

"For the transmutation?" Al's voice was more awake, and had taken on a note of worry.

"No, no." The lie slipped easily off his tongue when it was to protect his baby brother. "Nothing about that. I'll be back in a minute. Go back to sleep, Alphonse."

Thankfully, his brother obeyed, slipping easily away into unconsciousness, while Ed turned and crept downstairs, his head pounding with one, all-consuming thought: _the angles_.

When Ed and Al had first discovered their father's books on alchemy, they had eagerly scratched circles in the dirt, trying to replicate the images they found on the dusty pages. When they tried to transmute, however, nothing happened. It later turned out that their circles had been incomplete, and so they couldn't channel any alchemical power.

Further attempts had yielded increasingly exciting results—little metal toys, pools of water that appeared as if by magic—but Ed and Al learned quickly that a badly drawn transmutation circle could not only fail to do anything; sometimes, the results could be disastrous. One early attempt stuck in Ed's mind now: they had been trying to transmute a diamond. The book warned them that this was a more challenging process—it involved not only drawing elements out of the ground, but putting them under a great deal of pressure—but, young and ambitious as they were, Ed and his brother were determined to try; they wanted to give the gem to their mother as a gift. So they drew the circle on the ground and pressed their palms against the marks, faces alight with anticipation.

It was only after they had been studying with Izumi for some months that they figured out what had gone wrong that day. They had, it seemed, drawn the angles inside the circle too narrow, and that was why, instead of producing a diamond, they had been thrown backwards by a small explosion and spent the next fifteen minutes trying to put out the fire that burned within the confines of the circle.

 _In transmutation, you are channeling pure, raw energy. Treat it improperly_ — _even in the tiniest way_ — _and you could destroy yourselves. Or at least everything around you._

Izumi's stern words echoed in Edward's mind as he reached the bottom of the stairs, turned down the hall, and pushed open the door to their father's study.

An enormous white circle glowed dimly in the moonlight that filtered through the curtains. Even looking at it, Ed's worry began to subside. It looked exactly like it had in the thousands of diagrams they had drawn and studied as they developed their theory. But he had to be sure. He grabbed the protractor off the desk.

 _If a mistake in the angles for transmuting a diamond caused such an explosion, what would the price of an error in human transmutation be?_

His hands shook as he pressed the tool against the ground. He took a deep breath, willing himself to be calm, his hands to be steady. There was no room for error here.

First, the hexagram.

The first angle measured one-hundred and twenty degrees, just as it was supposed to. A less worried Ed might have left it at that, trusting the rest of the angles, but he measured the other five as well: all of them exactly one-twenty.

Then he had to measure the triangles. There were seven equilateral triangles all told, not to mention the various angles of different degrees created by the intersecting perimeters. He measured them all. Perfect angles ought to have indicated that their lines were straight, but he checked those too, making sure the edge of a tape measure fit flush against each one.

Finally, he was done. Every angle was perfect, every line as straight as a rod. The dread that had gathered like a lump of lead in his stomach gradually disappeared, and was replaced by the familiar anxious anticipation that had dogged him and his brother for weeks as they labored over the theory of human transmutation. He took one last look at the circle, then over at the work table where the ingredients for the transmutation sat, already carefully measured out, in a covered bowl. Everything was ready.

As he tiptoed up the stairs and crawled back into bed with his brother, he heard the beginnings of birdsong. The sun would be rising soon. It was almost time. Edward closed his eyes tightly.

He could already see his mother's face.

* * *

 **Okay, so, in my head, I told myself I was going to write something happy today. I know these first few chapters have been a bit angst-heavy, so I promised myself I'd do something silly and fun. Then this happened instead, and now I'm sitting here thinking about baby Ed after the transmutation, wondering what he did wrong, if maybe the angles weren't quite perfect ;_; Sometimes I hate myself xD**

 **As always, please read and review, and if you have any suggestions or requests, please let me know via PM! The next prompt is "seize the day." Updates may not be every day this week, as I'm on vacation with my family!**

 **Much love, Vic**


	6. Seize the Day

**I'm back! Sorry for almost a week of inactivity; my family was on vacation at York Beach (which is lovely, if still a bit cold in mid-June). I had a hell of a time trying to figure out how to do this prompt, because "seize the day" is such a cliche. I settled on a Hughes theme, but then had a hard time trying to figure out how to make that not HORRIBLY sad. But idk, I think I like the outcome. It's certainly bittersweet, but I don't think really sad.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, it's time to wake up."

Maes Hughes rolled over in bed. His wife was propped up on one elbow, smiling down on him in the soft grey light of early morning that filtered through the bedroom window. The sound of rain on cobblestones outside mingled with the soft sleepy sounds Elicia made in her crib beside the bed, and Gracia's hair just barely brushed his face. She smelled of lavender and newly-washed cotton.

Ordinarily, on a rainy morning like this, Maes Hughes would pull himself out of bed, splash warm water on his face, and put on his overcoat over his uniform. He would bend over his daughter's sleeping form and kiss the top of her head, then head quietly downstairs, where Gracia would be waiting for him with hot coffee and one last kiss before he left for the day.

Today, however, he relaxed back into his pillows, allowing his left arm to snake around Gracia's waist and pull her down into a deep kiss. She broke away only after several blissful seconds.

"Lieutenant Colonel–" she began, blushing.

"Mrs. Hughes." He kissed her again.

Gracia extricated herself more quickly this time, but she was laughing. "You'll be late for work, Maes."

He sighed dramatically and fell backwards, his head disappearing into the pillows with a _thwump_ and a rush of air through feathers and seams.

"Sometimes I _want_ to be late for work," he groused. "Give those stick-in-the-mud higher-ups something new to complain about."

Gracia lay back down next to him, settling in the gap between his arm and his side, and resting her hand on his chest. "You _are_ a stick-in-the-mud higher-up," she teased.

"Lord forbid!"

"Roy wouldn't let you get away with it."

"Eh." He waved his right hand dismissively. "That bastard needs something to complain about too."

"Language," Gracia chided gently. "Your daughter is in the room."

Maes pushed himself in a sitting position with a quiet groan of exertion, then craned his neck to see over Gracia and the side of the crib to where Elicia lay sleeping. Her fist was tucked next to her mouth, and a few curls of her hair stuck to her fingers where she had been sucking on them. One tiny foot stuck out from under her blanket, and her eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly, indicating her safely stowed away in dreamland. Maes smiled fondly even as his heart swelled to bursting and a lump of unshed tears gathered in his throat. The moment was so soft, so delicate, he was afraid it would dissipate if he so much as blinked.

"She's still asleep," he murmured finally, settling back down beside his wife.

"Well you can't go back to sleep."

She tried to push him up and off her arm, but he only rolled onto his side, looking over her and out the window at the rain. It was cold and wet outside, and in this moment, he had his wife in his arms, his daughter was still peaceful and innocent, and there would be thousands of days to get up and go to work in the rain. But this moment would never be again.

"You're right," he said decisively, and he pulled her to himself once more.

She squeaked softly as he began to pepper her face and neck with kisses, and tried halfheartedly to push him away.

"The baby–"

He hummed absentmindedly as he kissed the top of her nose. "Mm, let's make another one."

A girlish giggle slipped from Gracia's lips before she could stop it, and the sound woke Elicia. The small, disoriented cries of a small child suddenly disturbed filled the room, and Gracia slapped lightly at her husband's arm.

"Now look what you've done. I could've gone back to sleep after you left!"

"Just bring her into bed."

"What?" Gracia was sitting up, only half paying attention to her husband as she reached into the crib for the fussing baby.

"Just bring her into bed," Maes repeated, scooting over to create a small, warm space for Elicia. "She'll go back to sleep."

"What are you going to do?" Gracia asked softly, cradling Elicia against her shoulder.

Maes took his daughter in his arms and laid her down between them. Then he lay back down himself, curled around his baby daughter. He traced his finger over the soft lines of her palm, letting her tiny fist close over its tip and grip it tight. She tucked her hand under her chin–her sleep position of choice–and made a small noise of contentment, her eyes fluttering closed once more. He was transfixed, utterly robbed of thought or motion in the face of such quiet trust. His heart seemed to beat in fits and starts, stopping with every little sound, skipping every time her grip momentarily tightened.

And then there was his wife, beautiful with sleep in her eyes and her hair sticking out in odd directions. She was smiling down at him, a smile that mirrored his own heart: laden equally with overwhelming joy and a quiet sadness that knew the precious fragility of this moment. He remembered suddenly the first time he saw Gracia holding the newborn Elicia, the first time he knew the beautiful ache of a heart almost too small to contain all the love he had to give. He reached out his hand to his wife.

"Today?" He took her hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. "Today I'm going to stay right here."

"But the office–"

"The office can wait. This–" he nodded toward the child sleeping between them– "This will wait for nothing."

Gracia nodded, that same bittersweet smile lingering on her face, and lay down, still holding her husband's hand. Their foreheads touched gently, their fingers twined under the covers, their arms draped in tender protection over their daughter.

In forty-four minutes the phone would ring. Elicia would wake up, crying, at the noise, and Maes would stumble down the stairs to discover Headquarters on the other end of the line, demanding his presence for some administrative crisis or other. He would pull his overcoat on over his uniform while Gracia tried to make coffee and soothe a fussy baby at the same time. They would share a hasty kiss, and then Lieutenant Colonel Hughes would head to work in the rain.

But those forty-four minutes before the world began turning again would stay with him for the rest of the day, and that was something no amount of weak coffee or rain or paperwork could ever take from him.

* * *

 **Well it's nice to have a break from the angst, right? Thanks today go to my boyfriend, who listened to my incoherent babbling over the phone as I reread and edited this, because my normal beta is a sane human being who goes to bed before midnight xD  
**

 **As always, please feel free to review with your thoughts and critiques, and PM me if you have any requests or suggestions for future themes! The next prompt is "opposite." I _should_ be back on the daily/every other day schedule, but I can't promise anything because I start my nannying job on Monday.**

 **Much love, Vic**


	7. Opposite

**Hello hello!**

 **ImmortalxSnow requested some parental!Roy, so I tried my best to deliver.**

* * *

On a hot summer day, the walls of the East City Headquarters offered a welcome respite from the beating sun. Flickering fluorescent lights seemed a fair price to pay for cooler air, and so the Fullmetal Alchemist strolled casually down the hallways, nodding awkwardly at various uniformed persons who stopped to salute him. He almost never remembered that technically, he was a ranking member of the Amestrian military; it wasn't the sort of thing a fourteen year-old normally had to deal with. Then again, he wasn't a normal fourteen year-old, and he knew it. So it wasn't like he never pulled rank when it was convenient; he just forgot about it when it wasn't necessary.

"Hey, Fullmetal!"

 _Damnit_ , Ed cursed inwardly. He hadn't been paying attention, and had walked straight past the open door of Colonel Mustang's office. Now there was a man to whom Ed's rank meant nothing. Probably because he was his superior officer, but Ed generally chose to ignore that fact.

"No." He tossed the word over his shoulder and started walking faster.

Back in his office, Roy Mustang sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose; he could feel a headache coming on. He almost decided to let Edward go, but instead he sighed once more and pushed his chair back from his desk. He made it into the hallway just as the boy was about to round the corner.

"Fullmetal," he called again, and smiled slightly when he heard Edward cursing his near-escape under his breath.

Ed turned and stalked back, arms crossed, red coat swinging with every infuriated stride. Roy smirked, one eyebrow raised slightly, as the boy came toe to toe with him and scowled upwards, the tip of his hair just level with the Colonel's chin.

"What do you want, Colonel?"

The boy's tone could only be described as belligerent, and if he thought that Roy would be foolish enough to tell him what he really wanted, then he had another think coming. In recent months, Colonel Mustang had taken to ordering his small protege _not_ to do something he wanted done, and when Ed had started to catch on– _Nice try, Colonel, but I know what you're up to. Do it yourself!–_ he just tacked on a subtle jab at the boy's size, and whatever he really wanted was completed in record time out of sheer spite. It was a good system: both efficient and amusing. After all, one had to find ways to keep the system running when one of its cogs was a teenager who took perverse delight in doing the exact opposite of anything anybody told him to do.

"Nothing–"

Ed snorted. That was clearly not true.

"–I just wasn't expecting to see you here today."

Now that wasn't strictly false, but it wasn't true either. Roy had no expectations when it came to Edward Elric, mostly because the boy consistently defied them. As if to confirm that thought, Ed bristled.

"I go where I want," he said defiantly. "You can't control my life."

"Actually, I can," Roy replied pleasantly, to which he was fairly certain he heard Ed mutter "That's what you think," but he didn't press the issue. Instead, he began to stroll down the hallway, gesturing for Ed to walk with him.

The boy followed after a moment, his fists clenched and his face so dark it was a wonder there wasn't a storm cloud hanging over it.

"I was hoping you could update me on your recent activities," Roy began conversationally, ignoring the murderous glare on Edward's face, waiting for his head of hot air to dissipate.

Ed worked his mouth silently for a few seconds; it was a wonder he didn't bite off his tongue. Finally he managed a reply.

"Nothing to report." His voice dripped sarcasm.

Roy nodded, still unruffled by Edward's attitude. "And your...private research?"

Ed didn't quite stop walking, but Roy could hear the falter in his step. Then he began talking again, as though Roy had not spoken.

"That squabble downtown you sent me to clear up yesterday was child's play," he said with an affected airiness too loud to be genuine. "People were upset over some burst pipes. Took me thirty seconds to fix. I could've done it in my sleep. Give me something challenging next time, will ya Colonel?"

"What I meant to ask," Roy continued patiently, talking over the tail end of Edward's speech, "Was: have you found any leads on getting your bodies back?"

Ed came to a full stop.

"Yes, actually," he replied with sudden brightness, and Roy whirled around to face him, his heart pounding to the beat of something that felt suspiciously like hope.

"Really?"

The minute he asked, he regretted it.

"Oh yeah." Ed's face was hard and his tone savage. "I've got four flesh and blood limbs and my brother's disembodied soul isn't walking around in a massive suit of armor anymore. It's great; thanks for all the free time you gave us to work on it."

Roy turned away again, mentally kicking himself for being taken in by such a childish trap, trying to hide his face before Edward could see how it had fallen. "That's not very funny, Fullmetal."

Ed crossed his arms, staring steadily into the space just beside Roy's shoulder. "It wasn't meant to be, Colonel."

After several long moments, they both resumed walking by unspoken assent; people in passing had begun to give them odd looks.

"You know I will aid you in any way I can–" Roy started to say, but Ed cut him off.

"Al bears it so cheerfully," he said, still looking anywhere but at the Colonel. "He's just the same as he always was, and I don't know how he does it. Every day, I turn up nothing, and all he says is, 'That's okay, Brother. We'll find something tomorrow.'

"He says that every day." Ed finally turned his gaze on Roy, and it seemed to burn straight through him. "How can he say that every day?"

Roy Mustang rarely averted his eyes in a conversation. He considered it a sign of weakness, a signal to the other that you were vulnerable. Yet he found he could not look this fourteen year-old boy in the eye. He looked into the distance, as though seeing beyond the grey walls of the Headquarters to some far away time or place.

"Your brother trusts you," he answered simply.

Ed gave a hollow laugh. "And where has that gotten him?"

Roy frowned. "In excellent position to find the information he needs."

A sudden metallic crunching noise resounded through the hallway, and a startled private walking in the opposite direction jumped nearly out of his skin and scurried away. Roy turned sharply to the source of the noise: Edward had punched the wall.

"Damnit," the boy cursed, his voice shaking, "Alphonse wouldn't need that information in the first place if it wasn't for me!"

Roy studied him for a long moment. His limbs were trembling and his eyes were bright–with tears or anger it was impossible to tell. His right fist still rested in the indentation it had made in the wall. Finally, Roy spoke.

"Fix that," he said simply, gesturing to the damaged wall.

If looks could kill, Roy would've been dead in ten different ways.

"No."

The Colonel shrugged. "Fine. You don't have to fix it. We'll send you the bill for repairs."

"Fix it yourself, you bastard," Ed spat.

"It's not my mess," Roy said levelly.

Ed glared, but Roy only looked back at him, seeming somehow to grow larger in the intervening moments.

"Pull yourself together, Fullmetal," he ordered. This was a tantrum, and he was going to treat it as such. "Will this get you your bodies back? Will dwelling on the past bring you the future you want? Will feeling sorry for yourself fix anything? Will blaming others relieve your burden?

"You have to keep moving forward, Fullmetal. Keep your eyes front and center. Never look back. Take advantage of every opportunity until you reach your goal."

He paused. Ed's gaze had fallen and his hand had relaxed, but he remained silent.

"Or don't."

Ed looked up.

"Keep living in the past," Roy continued with feigned disinterest, watching Ed carefully. "Wallow in self-pity. Allow the mistakes you've made to consume and defeat you." He gestured at the wall. "Make others pay for your suffering.

"It's your choice."

With that, Roy turned his back on Edward and began to walk slowly away. A few seconds later, there was a flash of light and a crackle of energy. He looked back over his shoulder. Ed had mended the wall. He nodded.

"Good choice."

Ed scowled. "I just didn't want to have to pay for your stupid wall."

"Of course."

"I don't take orders from anybody. Or advice."

"Of course."

The scowl deepened. "Stop saying that."

Roy tucked his hands into his trouser pockets and held his tongue, but couldn't keep one eyebrow from cocking and one corner of his mouth from lifting.

"Smug bastard," Ed muttered.

"That's no way to speak to your commanding officer."

"I'll speak however I like."

Roy sighed. The headache was coming back.

"Fine," he said. "But go do it somewhere else. You've wasted enough of my time today."

And he was gone before Ed had a chance to protest that _he_ hadn't been the one to start this conversation. The Fullmetal Alchemist threw up his hands in disgust.

"Stupid Colonel," he grumbled to himself.

Then, instead of continuing his aimless stroll down the hallways of East Headquarters, he sought out the nearest exit. He stood on the steps in the hot sun and pulled a watch that would not open out of his belt. Though it could not tell him the time, it seemed nevertheless to tell him something. He stowed it once more and headed off at a brisk pace in the direction of the library.

He had work to do.

* * *

 **There you have it. My longest piece yet, and I'm gonna be honest, I struggled a lot with it. Here's hoping it's up to scratch.**

 **As always, please leave a review with any comments or critiques, and if you have any requests or suggestions for future themes, feel free to PM me!**

 **The next prompt is "passions run."**

 **Much love, Vic**


	8. Passions Run

**Woo! Longest fic yet! Idk why but this one just took off. Might have something to do with missing my boyfriend. Idk. I really enjoyed writing this, I hope you enjoy reading it!**

* * *

"All due respect, Young Lord, but is there ever a time you're not hungry?"

Ling Yao looked up, half a piece of chicken hanging out of his mouth. Though it was, perhaps, an undignified position in which to find the heir-apparent to the Xingese throne, Lan Fan didn't even blink at the sight. She had traversed a blistering desert and hunted immortal demon spawn by his side, and through it all he never seemed to lose his appetite. So while anybody else might have been mortified and apologetic, she only raised an eyebrow and waited for what was sure to be an interesting answer to her question.

Ling swallowed.

"I don't know," he said. "I'd have to think about it."

Then he resumed eating.

Lan Fan watched him silently, her brow furrowed. It was hard for her to express her feelings at that moment, mostly because she didn't understand them herself. Her master had neither answered her question nor ceased shoveling food into his mouth, but all she felt was this overwhelming...fondness, she supposed. Standing there, watching him eat like he hadn't a care in the world except personally emptying the universe of every type of poultry, it felt strangely warm and familiar. It felt like home.

"I think–" Ling spoke suddenly, and Lan Fan jumped. "I think I could only forget my need for food if there was something more important to command my attention."

Lan Fan frowned. "But in Amestris, when we sought the philosopher's stone–"

"Ah," Ling cut her off with a wave of his hand. "But consider this Lan Fan: What good am I or a philosopher's stone to my people if I am dead of starvation? Hm?"

The prince looked extremely pleased with himself, and although Lan Fan felt quite sure there had to be some flaw in his logic, she couldn't seem to find the words to disagree.

"No," he continued, ignoring her perplexity. "It would have to be something so great, so all consuming that I valued it above even my people, above my need to live for them."

Lan Fan wet her lips; she hadn't realized they were so dry. "And is there such a thing?"

Ling contemplated a drumstick, pondering her question.

"No," he said at last, and took a bite.

Words once again failed her. She had no thoughts, only a vague sensation that she was doing her best to ignore. It seemed imprudent to dwell on it when it felt so alarmingly close to...No. The Young Lord valued nothing above his people; that was as it should be. And as his bodyguard, his most trusted servant, it was her job to ensure that he could serve them without fear. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.

"Did you want something, Lan Fan?"

His words snapped her out of her reverie. Dangerous words. It was not her job to want anything. Anything but the Young Lord's safety. But that wasn't what he was asking. She could not, however, manage to remember why she had come in in the first place. Was there a message she had to convey? A visitor waiting? A possible threat to discuss or investigate? She didn't think so. That was the sort of thing she would remember, no matter how...distracted she might be.

No, it had been nothing so serious. Only a desire to know what he was doing. To make sure he was safe. To make sure he was happy. Was he happy? He seemed to be. After all, he had achieved everything he wished for in achieving the guarantee of the Xingese throne. And at this moment, he appeared to have devoured several whole chickens and a very large quantity of vegetables. He had to be pretty content. There was nothing else he could possibly want.

"Nothing, my Lord," Lan Fan answered him. "I was simply coming to inquire after _your_ needs."

Ling gestured to a cushion on the floor. "Some company could not go amiss."

"I'm don't think that is the wisest idea..." she began even as she sat, ignoring her grandfather's admonitions in her head, telling herself she sat only because the prince had asked her to.

Ling laughed at her hesitation.

"Do you really suppose, Lan Fan, that you are the only thing that stands between me and danger?" He shook his head, amused. "There are easily one hundred armed guards stationed at every possible entrance point, and then some." He laughed again. "I promise I will not die just because you sit down."

So they sat in silence for a few minutes, and Ling looked like he was about to speak, when a sudden noise outside caused Lan Fan to spring up like a startled cat. Nothing further stirred, but Lan Fan did not sit back down.

"I am sorry, my Lord. It just seems negligent..."

Ling waved off her apology. "Don't be sorry." He stood and stretched, surveying the carnage that was his dining table. "I should return to my duties as well."

 _As well. Duty._ The words echoed disjointedly in Lan Fan's head. She and the Young Lord were so similar–bound by duty, not only to their occupations, but to each other. They were so similar, so close.

So close. He was standing right in front of her; she was blocking the doorway.

"Lan Fan," he said, and too late she realized the dangers of not thinking through everything she had been trying to ignore.

"Lan Fan," he repeated only seconds later, reeling backwards. "What–"

Her hands were shaking, still at chest height from grabbing the fabric of his shirt. Her lips felt like fire. She fell to her knees.

"Forgive me," she gasped. "Forgive me!"

For several agonizing seconds, the only sound in the room was her penitent sobs, the only movement her trembling. Then she felt two hands on her shoulders.

"There is nothing to forgive," Ling said as he pulled her upright. "Did you think I didn't know?"

The tears ceased out of sheer shock. Then she felt herself grow hot with shame. This was somehow worse.

"I hoped you didn't," she murmured.

He laughed. His hands were still on her shoulders.

"I'm hungry, Lan Fan."

She looked up, utterly bemused by the change of topic, but ready offer to send for more food, then shrank back from him. He was gazing at her so intently she felt he could see straight through her. Unable to meet his eyes, her own darted instinctively to the table behind them. He shook his head.

"Not for food."

And then she was in his arms. Her back was against the wall, his hands were against her back, and his lips were on hers. It was rough, it was hungry, it was like nothing she'd ever allowed herself to imagine. It was like fire and ice and life and death and everything that didn't make sense together all in one. Only when she felt sure she would pass out for lack of air did he break the kiss, and they stood, foreheads touching, chests heaving, staring into each other's eyes. Lan Fan was the first to speak.

"We can't do this," she began, while making no effort to push him away.

He closed his already heavily-lidded eyes, letting his chin drop so his lips hovered at the spot where her jaw met her neck, right below her ear. "Why not?"

She inhaled sharply, closing her eyes as well. "Because. It will compromise us both."

He looked back up at her.

"You started it." There was no accusation in his words, and perhaps even some amusement, but they stung nevertheless.

She pushed him away now, and wrapped her arms–one flesh and blood, one automail–around herself, remembering all the things she had done for the prince out of love, only to put them in this position.

"Neither of us can afford to be distracted," she said more definitively than she felt.

Ling cocked an eyebrow at her. "I did mention the one hundred-some armed guards I have, didn't I?"

Bristling at this implication of her superfluity, she grew suddenly more confident. " _You_ , Young Lord, cannot afford to be distracted!"

He looked up at her. There was still no anger in his eyes, but he sighed as though frustrated. "Lan Fan?"

"Sir."

"Did I not tell you I was hungry?"

Lan Fan blinked. "Yes, my Lord."

Ling raised a hand to her cheek then, catching a strand of hair and tucking it behind her ear. His hand stayed where it was, and Lan Fan could feel herself growing warm beneath it.

"You are not a distraction to me, Lan Fan." His voice was richer and deeper and more beautiful than she had ever heard it before. "You are what I need to serve my people well."

Lan Fan was silent for a long moment, then asked quietly, "What are we to do, then?"

"I cannot marry you."

She knew that already but it still stung a bit to hear.

"Not yet, anyway."

She looked up sharply, but he continued before she could speak.

"Until I become emperor, I can do nothing that might cause me to fall out of favor with my father or my people. They will forgive an emperor. They will not forgive a twelfth son of an emperor.

"Would you wait for me, Lan Fan?"

The question hung, heavy and uncertain in the air. It had a simple answer, but answering was not so simple. For the answer was more than the answer. It was something of a promise, a promise that would change her life permanently.

There was never any doubt in her mind.

She said yes.

She said yes, and for the rest of the world, nothing changed. The rest of the world saw only a prince and his masked bodyguard, who stood always in the shadows and never spoke, only watched. The world continued as it always had, but Ling Yao and Lan Fan held hands under the table and stole kisses between bites of chicken.

And waited.

* * *

 **I had a bit of internal debate over the theme here, because I know /strictly/ speaking, LingxLan Fan isn't canon, and I can totally see why people wouldn't like it as a ship. But I have a soft spot for it (I'm a bit of a romantic), and honestly, this just kinda happened.**

 **As always, please leave a review with any comments or critiques you might have, and if you have any requests or suggestions for future themes, please shoot me a PM. The next prompt is "connection."**

 **Much love, Vic**


	9. Connection

**So I wasn't sure what to do for this one. I didn't want to do something painfully obvious–i.e. a ship–for this prompt ("connection"), and so I consulted my oracle–otherwise known as my little sister–and her response was to start singing that song from the Muppet Movie, "The Rainbow Connection." I laughed. And then I stopped laughing.**

 **And I wrote this.**

* * *

 _Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,  
The lovers, the dreamers, and me_

. . .

Olivier Armstrong was not a lover.

When her parents presented her with her newborn baby brother, she poked him in the eye and scoffed when he began to wail. Her parents scolded, told her that babies were fragile and that she couldn't do that do her brother, but she just wrinkled her nose in disgust and said it was stupid that babies were so squishy.

A few hours later, she sat by her brother's cradle, glaring down at him and his long eyelashes and his spit bubbles and his burbling laugh. She reached over the edge to poke him again–he needed to be toughened up, she had decided–but his chubby fist collided with her finger mid-air, and he seized it with surprising strength and a particularly wet giggle.

Olivier Armstrong was not a lover, but when Alex Louis grabbed her finger that first time, she didn't pull it away.

. . .

Olivier Armstrong was not a dreamer.

While Alex was poring over books of alchemy, reveling in the power to create and build, she was outside, yelling frightfully and hacking at trees with her sword. When she came inside, glowing pink with exertion, she tossed the blade with affected carelessness so that it impaled the pages of the book right between her brother's outspread fingers.

He only looked up with a twinkle in his eyes and asked, "Did the trees fight back today, Sister?"

She snarled wordlessly and stalked up to her bedroom, muttering about idiotic mumbo-jumbo and the softness of men. A few minutes later, she heard a knock, and flung open her bedroom door to find Alex, come to return her sword. It was encased in a new scabbard of wood inlaid with silver. She glared at it for a moment before snatching it up and slamming the door in her brother's good-humored face.

Olivier Armstrong was not a dreamer, but when she looked down at the weapon in her hands, she imagined telling her future soldiers about her brother the alchemist, who had made her her scabbard out of new firewood and an old belt buckle.

. . .

Olivier Armstrong was not a forgiving person.

When her brother came home from Ishval, the first thing she did was slap him in the face. Then she didn't speak to him for three days. He bore it much as he always did, but there was no amusement in his eyes now. He only looked at her like a dog who knew he deserved to be kicked. That infuriated her more.

"Coward," was the first word she spat at him when her silence finally ended.

He just stood sorrowfully in the face of the storm, his head bowed as she heaped abuse upon it.

"You are a disgrace to the military of Amestris and the name of Armstrong," she proclaimed coldly. "You are unworthy of your rank, your power, and your family. You are no brother of mine."

Olivier Armstrong was not a forgiving person, and when Alex stood before her, shamefaced and silent, she saw no way of ever mending the bond between them.

. . .

Olivier Armstrong did not consider herself a hero.

In the wake of the Promised Day, the general stood atop a pile of rubble, left hand on her sword, right hand suspended in a makeshift sling. Her troops dug through the wreckage beneath her, searching for survivors. Though perfectly aware of the role she had played in the day's victory, she knew still more keenly that others had done, had sacrificed much more.

She watched as Lieutenant Hawkeye, weakened and blood-soaked, gently led Colonel Mustang through the debris to a place where he could sit. He felt his way gingerly into a spot free of stone and metal, then pulled the lieutenant down beside him. She laid her head on his shoulder.

Olivier watched Edward Elric clutch his brother's emaciated body to himself and cast his eyes up at the sky, blinking back tears of exhausted gratitude. Alphonse looked up as well, but at his older brother, seeing him through adoring human eyes for the first time in what must have seemed an eternity. Their father stood silently by, smiling.

"So, Sister, we won."

Alex's voice sounded low and somber behind her and she turned briefly.

"Oh, it's you," she said gruffly before returning to her survey.

Her brother was quiet for a long moment.

"You did our family proud today, Sister," he said finally.

Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword. "As did you, Brother."

If Alex was surprised at the compliment, he gave no indication. He simply joined her in looking out over the battle's aftermath. It was nothing remarkable to an outsider, but to the oldest Armstrong and her only brother, this was a moment as rare and beautiful as any heavenly miracle.

Olivier Armstrong was neither lover nor dreamer, yet she stood among them, and with them, she would build the future.

* * *

 **Okay idk about those of you reading this, but I had a ton of fun writing it. I hope you enjoyed it. The Armstrongs are so fun to write.**

 **As always, please leave a review if you can, and feel free to PM me with your requests and suggestions! The next prompt is "lull and storm."**

 **Much love, Vic**


	10. Lull and Storm

**I know I'm publishing earlier in the day than normal, but I couldn't get it up last night, so here it is. Have some more Roy and Riza :) I was originally hoping to have this be more Riza-centric, but Roy forced his way in there (typical Roy). I'm still hoping to have one soon that focuses mainly on Riza, because I really want to explore her character. But for now, enjoy some Ishval-era Royai!**

* * *

The dusts of Ishval swirled in arid clouds around the boots of the Amestrian State Military. Soldiers milled aimlessly in the shadows of desolation; half-shells of ruined buildings were all that stood between them and the merciless rays of the sun. Somewhere, the half-hearted flapping of an empty canteen signaled that yet another man was out of water.

Roy Mustang squinted up at the white-blue sky, searching for the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming from above the ground, which would explain why it was carrying across the whole campsite. Finally, in between dust-strewn beams of burning sunlight, he made out a figure crouched on the low roof of one of the more intact buildings. Their head was thrown back, trying to coax any residual drops of water out of a water skin. And–Roy squinted harder–they weren't a man. He stood, shaking his own canteen to gauge how much was left in it, then strode to the foot of her perch.

"Hawkeye," was his only preface to tossing the canteen upwards.

She caught it one-handed with barely a glance, then shook it. They clearly had different ideas of what was an appropriate amount to share, because she scowled down at him and tossed the canteen back to the ground. He sighed heavily. It was no good trying again, so he just picked it up and entered the building, in search of roof access.

The first floor was utterly devoid of any sign of life, former or current, and Roy breathed a sigh of relief. The dust in the air caked his throat, but he preferred it to the stench of death that sometimes greeted the soldiers when they searched the bombed-out villages. Maybe this house had already been empty when the annihilation started. Maybe the family–there was still a tiny cloth doll sitting slouched in the corner–had fled when they first heard the tramp of boots echoing over the hills. Or maybe they had simply died elsewhere; bodies had littered the streets when the military first moved in, and now they lay, bones and ashes in a smoldering pile on the outskirts of town. Roy had burned them himself.

A sudden noise from the second floor put him suddenly on his guard; his hands felt hot and slick beneath the fabric of his gloves as he pressed himself against the wall behind a collapsing bookshelf. But the only thing to appear through the aperture in the ceiling–there must have been a ladder there at some point–was Riza, who jumped and landed catlike on the floor, her rifle strapped to her back and her own empty canteen clutched between her teeth.

"Major Mustang," she said after removing the leather bag from her mouth, "I can see your boots."

He came out from behind the bookcase with a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "How did you know it was me?"

She returned his smile. "I guessed, Sir."

"A dangerous thing to do in wartime, don't you think?"

She gestured to the weapon on her back.

"I'm a good guesser," she said grimly.

Roy said nothing, only leaned against a table that creaked in protest at his weight, then gestured for Riza to join him. She adjusted her gun and did so, and they stood there in silence for a long time. It would have been longer, but the dust in the air was thick and heavy, and Riza began to cough. Roy removed the canteen from his belt once more and offered it to her. She shook her head, even as her face turned pink with the effort of holding in her coughs. He sighed and waved the container insistently.

"Just take it, Hawkeye."

She finally accepted, but only took the smallest of sips before trying to return it. Roy frowned.

"More," he ordered.

Her expression remained neutral as she tipped her head back and allowed the water to slide down her throat, but he could feel her gratitude in the eager rise and fall of her chest and, simultaneously, her resentment in the furrow in her brow. For a moment, he thought she might finish it out of combination of extreme thirst and petty spite, but after a few long gulps, she handed the container back to him. He would have let her drain it if she needed, but he knew she wouldn't take any more, so he clipped the canteen to his belt again without a word.

Riza wiped her mouth, leaving a streak of dust on her chin and a matching strip of clean skin on the back of her hand. "Thank you, Sir."

He opened his mouth to reply, but it was lost in a chorus of shouts from outside, and the deadly rattle of machine guns. Roy was on the ground before he knew what was happening; Riza had thrown him down and was kneeling in front of him, rifle braced against her shoulder and pointed at the door.

"Stay down, Major," she whispered fiercely.

He pressed himself into the floor again, wondering briefly how she had noticed him looking up without ever shifting her gaze. He carefully dragged one hand from under him to shield his mouth and nose from the dust; the middle of an Ishvalan raid was not an opportune moment to have a coughing fit. Then he listened over the rasping sound of his own breathing. To the screams. The sound of bodies hitting the ground. Bodies of people who had no chance of living in the face of the Amestrian State Military. Suddenly, he didn't want to hear anymore, and shortly afterward, he didn't have to.

His body felt heavy as he pushed himself up onto his knees. The silence was thick with the violence that had bought it, and it weighed him down. Then Riza turned to look at him, and the ringing in his ears seemed to die down.

"Are you all right, Sir?"

She did not apologize for shoving him, nor should she have. She knew she had done the right thing, so she only looked him up and down, scanning for any possible injury. Roy waved his hand dismissively.

"Yes, yes," he replied. "You?"

She shouldered her rifle once more and stood. "Fine, Sir."

He followed suit, brushing dust off of his uniform. When he looked up, Riza was as immaculate as ever, the only beautiful thing in a landscape of desolation. The one blemish in her appearance was the spot of dirt on her chin where she had wiped her mouth earlier. Roy had a sudden urge to wipe it off with his thumb, to rest his palm against her cheek, to feel life beneath his fingers. To know that he didn't simply kill everything he touched.

But he was wearing his gloves, and Riza had already turned away.

"We ought to check up on the situation out there," she said. "Make sure no one is hurt."

The irony of her statement hung in the air, fouler than the stench of death, and she crossed her arms over her chest as if to protect herself from it. Roy put a hand on her shoulder.

"Courage, soldier," he said. "I'm sure everybody is fine."

She nodded, for although she knew full well that his reassurance was a lie, she knew even better that that lie was the only thing that stood between them and the madness born of a guilt they could not afford to feel. So they stepped out of the ruined building into daylight, to gather bodies–never look at their faces–and throw them one by one–never count them–onto the still-burning coals of the previous pyre. Then they would move on.

They would march ever onward, the unfeeling eye in the center of the most merciless storm ever seen.

* * *

 **The beginning of this one came more easily than the end, I hope it wrapped up satisfactorily! As always, thanks to my sister for beta-ing and generally being awesome.**

 **Please leave a review if you have the time, and feel free to PM me with your suggestions and requests for future themes! The next prompt is "animal."**

 **Much love, Vic**


	11. Animal

**I had a HELL of a time figuring out what to do with this prompt, because it's so much more literal/concrete than the other, more conceptual ones I've been working with. Finally, after consulting with my dear ImmortalxSnow, I came up with this. Have some lighthearted Scar, May, Xiao Mei fluff!**

* * *

When a man is known to the world at large by his most prominent physical attribute, it is fair to assume that he doesn't do much talking. If people hear what you have to say, they are less likely to remember you solely for the massive scar on your face.

Even in his childhood, he had been known to those outside the family as 'the little brother.' His brother had been the thinker, and he had liked to talk about his ideas. Scar had merely listened. Nowadays he didn't do much of either listening or talking. Revenge was, on the whole, a rather nonverbal affair.

Until this girl had shown up.

"Mr Scar, where are you from?"

"Mr Scar, where did you meet Mr Yoki?"

"Mr Scar, why do we have to travel by night?"

"Mr Scar, are we going to stop to eat soon?"

She seemed to have an endless supply of questions, and, despite the lack of answers received, she kept asking them. And even when she stopped her rapid-fire inquiries, she continued to babble on to herself and to the small black and white creature that perched on her shoulder. Oblivious to his taste for silence, she bobbed along behind him, arms outstretched as though she were walking a balance beam, hair bouncing and swaying with every step, eyes alight with curiosity and wonder. Her chatter filled every waking minute from the time they met to some ill-fated moment the next day when she finally asked the exact wrong question.

"Mr Scar, what is your real name?"

It was no more invasive than many of her other questions–which included "Why do you have red eyes?" and "Where did you get your scar?"–but this one was too much. It rubbed too hard at the one raw spot on his conscience, reminded him too much of the humanity he was denying. A name was an identity. An identity was a soul. And a soul was the most powerful inhibition to the wanton judgement he was dealing out. Forgetting his name was convenient; in truth, he had nearly forgotten that he used to have one. Now this girl asked it of him, and it was too much.

"Enough, little girl," he barked over his shoulder. "Enough questions!"

Silence fell behind him. He glanced back to see that when May's mouth had stopped, so had the rest of her body. She now stood motionless, eyes downcast and hands folded. Even her braids seemed to droop and hang still. He sighed and stopped as well.

"Don't cry, little girl," he turned and began, but May looked up sharply at his words.

"I'm not crying," she shouted, although tears formed in the corners of her eyes even as her hands curled into fists. "I am the seventeenth royal princess of Xing, not some weak child! Who are you to give me orders?"

Scar straightened up, his arms folded.

"You're not in Xing anymore," he said impassively, ignoring her question.

May crossed her arms as well, mimicking her tall companion's posture.

"I know that," she snapped. "I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were," he exploded. Scar rarely raised his voice–when he used his voice at all–but this girl had a special way of getting under his skin.

"Well you don't have to yell," she shot right back, arms thrown rigidly behind her, hands in fists.

"Well you don't have to incessantly talk!"

Despite their drastic height difference, the two were eye to eye, May on the very tips of her toes and Scar bent over almost in half. Both were glaring, totally intent on not giving an inch, when a tiny second pair of beady eyes joined May's in scowling at Scar. Xiao Mei, who had been sleeping tucked away under May's collar, had awakened at the sounds of conflict and, alarmed to find an apparent threat hovering inches from her mistress' face, stood to attention with her small teeth bared. If Scar was startled at her sudden appearance, he gave no indication. What did surprise him was to find the creature moments later attached to his nose by a vicious bite of its tiny razor-sharp teeth.

He reeled backwards. "What the hell?"

May crossed her arms and pursed her lips, visibly torn between disapproval of Xiao Mei's attack and a childish desire for revenge.

"Call off your cat," Scar growled as the tiny panda continued to cling to his face.

"First apologize for shouting at me!"

"You shouted too!" Xiao Mei bit down harder and he grunted in pain. "Fine! Fine, I apologize!"

The response was immediate.

"Xiao Mei, come," May ordered, and the panda opened her jaws and dropped off Scar's face to the ground, then scampered up the fabric of May's dress to perch once more on her shoulder.

Scar put a hand to his face, and it came away dotted with blood. He scowled up at the girl and her pet. May, however, was utterly changed by the incident, and back to her cheerful self.

"I'm sorry for Xiao Mei, Mr Scar," she said, bowing apologetically. "She is very protective of me."

Inexplicably, the man's face softened a bit.

"I understand." His voice was low and unreadable. "She does what she can for those she loves."

May furrowed her brow, and then her eyes widened as Scar inclined his head toward the animal on her shoulder. It was a small motion, but it was unmistakably meant as a sign of respect. Xiao Mei, meanwhile, bared her teeth in a final growl and then disappeared once more into her mistress' collar. Scar turned back to the road.

"We should keep going," he said simply.

May nodded. "Yes sir, Mr Scar."

They started off again, walking for the first time in companionable silence to the sound of Xiao Mei's tiny snores.

* * *

 **This was fun to write, I hope it was fun to read! As always, thanks to ImmortalxSnow for her inspiration and to my sister for being a rather put-upon beta.**

 **Please leave a review with any comments/criticisms you have, and if you have any requests or suggestions, just shoot me a PM! Then next prompt is "children."**

 **Much love, Vic**


	12. Children

**Again with the prompts that provide a bewildering number of options. This took me much longer than it should have to come up with, and it's almost more meta than an actual one-shot. Well. It's like a meta dessert with a sweet one-shot surprise in the center. Idk man. I'm tired xD**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

It had long since ceased to be a point worth noting that Edward Elric did not have much of a childhood. The fact had been bludgeoned to death by every single adult he encountered from the time he was five, and he was, quite frankly, sick of it. Perhaps it had persisted so long because of his height, but no matter how justifiable it might have been, he was glad when the melancholy observation finally died off. The funny thing about not having a childhood is that it doesn't seem odd to the one deprived. To Edward, his own premature adulthood was only ever a matter of course, and the vicarious wistfulness of various grown-ups had always smarted vaguely of condescension. He had, as a rule, always tried to avoid feeling sorry for himself, and so when other people felt sorry for him he viewed it not only as a waste of time but as an infringement upon his personal wishes. Languishing for want of a childhood was neither desirable nor effective. He hadn't helped save the country by wishing for a stable home life.

The other funny thing about his normal lack of normality was that it made settling down an incredibly strange experience. With the military and his alchemical ability left far behind, he found himself in a constant state of bemusement. Winry, of course, had automail, which Ed would never really understand. Even if he wanted to, Winry was far too jealous and exacting a master to make the experience enjoyable, so he was content to leave the business in her greasy and capable hands. That left him with two flesh and blood hands of his own, entirely free of machine oil or any greater purpose.

Al was still in Xing. He and May had come back to Amestris for the wedding, but had returned only a few short weeks later, leaving Ed with a wife and a deep sense of aimless happiness that was only just beginning to worry at the edges of his adventurous nature. Perhaps that was why he found himself perched so often on the roof of the automail shop. He had long since performed any necessary repairs, and now sat there only for the sheer thrill of the open horizon. It called to him. But then so did the sound of Winry's tuneless humming in the building beneath him. It reverberated soothingly through the wooden framework of the shop, reminding him of something so distant he wasn't even sure he could call it a memory...

He didn't know how long it was before he realized the humming had stopped. He didn't hear it so much as feel it. The building grew suddenly still and tense beneath him, and a firm belief that the old wooden beams had grown finely attuned to the moods of their mistress made him immediately wary. Then they shook just once in concert with a soft gasp that floated through the open window, and Ed shot up. Standing up rapidly on a sloped and uneven roof is never a good idea, but Ed realized it too late, as he lost his balance and fell, limbs flailing, to the ground.

As he fell, the strangest image flashed through his head. It was blurred and wavy: seen through glass, he thought. Hohenheim. His father. He had been climbing the tree outside their house. Fixing the swing, Ed remembered. He and Al and their mother had been watching him through the window as he clung nervously to the bough with his knees, and fumbled to retie the thick knotted rope. Ed had known, somehow, before he could've said anything, that his father was going to fall. When he did, Mom had rushed outside, leaving Ed and Al to watch, wide-eyed, through the imperfections in the glass.

Hohenheim had left soon afterward. Yet in that fraction of a second before Ed hit the ground, all he thought of was his father being a father, if only for a moment. Then he did hit the ground, and as he lay winded on his back, a new thought occurred to him: Was this how Hohenheim had felt, an extraordinary man trying to live an ordinary life? Ed was an ordinary man now, and that was a chance his father had never had, yet as his head spun, he had a sudden horrible dread that he would somehow share his father's fate.

Then Winry was standing over him, and there was a smile on her face that spoke of more than amusement at his dazed expression.

. . .

Edward Elric had not had a childhood. He had not even had a father.

His child, however, would have both.

* * *

 **I JUST REALLY LIKE EDWIN OKAY. Also Edwin babies are basically my fave so. Writing about them concretely would be stressful because names and extra-canon stuff which freaks me out but this more abstract approach was fun for me. I hope you all like it :)**

 **As always, please leave a review if you have any comments or critiques, and drop me a PM if you have suggestions and/or requests for future themes! The next prompt is 'we all float on.'**

 **Much love, Vic**


	13. We All Float On

**Welp. Again with the accidental angst. But idk, floating just gives this idea of loneliness that I think fits the theme well. Or maybe that's just my melancholy tendencies coming out. Anyway xD Enjoy!**

* * *

Elicia Hughes grew up without a father. Three years old, though it may seem so to a little girl of that age, is not grown up at all, and so, although she cherished throughout her life some vague impressions deep in her heart, her memories were not enough to redeem her from fatherlessness.

Gracia Hughes knew when she married Maes that premature widowhood was an occupational hazard of being a soldier's wife, but she had never quite allowed herself to entertain the notion. Then he was snatched away from her in the early years of their lives together, and she was left with nothing of him but photographs, letters, and a daughter who shared her father's indomitable spirit but almost none of her mother's memories.

They managed. For a short time around Elicia's fifth birthday, Gracia contemplated moving them to a cottage in the suburbs; the schools were better there, she had heard. But the memories that made life in Central so painful were simultaneously, the only other thing besides Elicia that made her feel close to Maes. So they stayed. Their townhouse grew faded with use and cluttered with all the things that somehow become necessary for raising a little girl. Gracia remembered the time Maes tripped over a little red wagon and fell flat on his face, but when he lifted it, screwed up in pain, from the carpet, his whole expression changed. He was looking right into the uncertainly tearful eyes of his baby daughter, and suddenly it was as if he had meant to end up on the floor like that all along.

And then it was Elicia's eighth birthday, and when Gracia said over cake and ice cream, "Daddy would be so proud of you," Elicia frowned.

"I don't really remember Daddy," she said matter-of-factly before putting a bite of cake in her mouth.

Gracia barely made it to her bedroom before bursting into tears. That night she sat her daughter down and showed her every single photograph in the house, told her every story she could think of until when Gracia looked down, Elicia was asleep against her arm. There were tear tracks on both their faces. Gracia picked her up like she hadn't done in years and carried her slowly upstairs, ignoring the way her arms burned with the unfamiliar weight. When she laid her down on the bed and took off her patent leather party shoes, Elicia stirred.

"Mommy?" she mumbled.

"I'm right here," Gracia whispered, brushing back the flyaways that had escaped her daughter's pigtails. "What is it?"

"Mommy I'm sorry I didn't remember Daddy. I think I remember him now."

Gracia's eyes welled up with new tears. "That's okay," she said over the lump in her throat. "Sometimes it's hard for me to remember him too."

When Elicia was twelve, she came home from school to find Gracia crying on the couch, a framed photograph clutched in her hands. She sat quietly beside her mother and pried the frame from her trembling hands. Inside the once-bright silver, her parents smiled out at her, her father grinning broadly in a tuxedo, her mother blushing and beaming, radiant in white. Elicia thought back to the date she wrote on her assignments and realized it was thirteen years to the day since that photograph was taken. So she let her mother, still sobbing silently, lay her head down on her lap, and they sat there, Elicia stroking her hair and making comforting noises until long after the sun went down.

But the next morning the sun rose and Gracia rubbed her eyes, which were still heavy and felt like sand, and her daughter's head was in her lap now and her heart swelled with a joy that nobody could possibly take from her. Her neck was stiff from sleeping sitting up on the couch and her clothes felt clammy and unwashed, but there was a deep peace over everything, and she looked down at Elicia blinking awake and smiled.

Because for every bad day there were ten good ones, and for every tear there were a thousand smiles. Gracia remembered with heart-stopping clarity the first time she caught herself laughing after Maes died. She was washing dishes after dinner and Elicia was fiddling with the knob on the radio. Suddenly a cheerful tune was ringing through the kitchen and Elicia was tugging on her skirt and saying, over and over, "Mama, dance!" And the music seemed to touch her heart with a warmth she never thought she'd feel again and she swept her little girl up in her arms and they whirled around in circles until Gracia fell heavily against the edge of the counter, out of breath and laughing so hard her stomach hurt. And there were tears running down her face, but she was smiling and for a moment she could feel Maes as though he stood behind her, just out of sight. _My beautiful girls!_

Elicia went to school and came home with stories of the mean girl who pulled her pigtails and the little boy who gave her a valentine. Gracia found a job as a secretary at a small company only a few blocks away that, combined with Maes' pension, made enough for them to live comfortably together in that little townhouse. Elicia got good grades and the labels "precocious" and "involved." Gracia became a second mother to the friends that her daughter brought home, known to them as quiet, kind, and a good listener whom they trusted even with the things they didn't want to tell their own mothers. The grocer, the mailman, the local police officer, all knew the mother and daughter by name and smiled when they saw the pair walk by, hand-in-hand when Elicia was small, and still arm-in-arm as the girl grew up.

And one day, Elicia was eighteen, and there was grey in Gracia's neatly-kept hair, and Elicia was on a train bound for East City and the adventures she would have at university there. And Gracia stood on the platform, waving until long after Elicia was out of sight, and it occurred to her that they had done more than manage.

They had thrived.

* * *

 **I tried to end on a happy note at least! There's something I really love about this pair; they are so strong!**

 **As always, leave a review if you have any comments or critiques, and if you have any suggestions or requests for future themes, just shoot me a PM! The next prompt is "chess."**

 **Much love, Vic**


	14. Chess

**So I know the last one was Hughes themed but I couldn't for the life of me think of anything for chess but this quote from the musical Hamilton (see below), and the only person that seemed to fit was Hughes. Idk I guess I could've made it work with somebody else, but I'd already done something chess-related for Royai so my choices were more limited.**

 **So have a bit of Hughes meta. I'm not super proud of it, but I knew I had to get this one done or I would wallow here getting nothing done and never move on. I don't think "enjoy" is the proper word to say here...so just...go at it xD**

* * *

 _Meddling in the middle of a military mess  
A game of chess_

. . .

State Alchemists did not lead ordinary lives. That much was, of course, obvious to almost anybody with half a brain. Thus Maes Hughes often mocked his best friend for the fantastic adventures he managed to get into, while the ordinary humans blundered around trying to survive the explosive nonsense conjured by the Dogs of the Military. Roy only laughed and said Maes had better get used to it. What Maes didn't say in return was that, in truth, he was already quite used to it. The long months in Ishval had accustomed him—perhaps inalterably—to the chaos that seemed inevitable in the wake of alchemy.

And so, although he grieved for the terrible things the Elric brothers had managed to involved themselves in, he did not once blink an eye.

Until he found out about the Philosopher's Stones.

Never before had he wanted to rip off his uniform and denounce his affiliation with the Amestrian army. Not even amid the doubts triggered by Ishval did he shirk from the surety of his vocation to the military. Yet the concept of a weapon of mass destruction—for that is what Maes considered it—that destroyed human life as a prerequisite for its existence—that was truly abhorrent. And the knowledge that his country, his fellow soldiers were mixed up in its creation—that was insupportable. Ignorant as he had been, he felt even he was touched by this reality, soiled by its horror. And worst of all, he knew that something like this had to be big. As a member of the intelligence corps, he had seen too much to deceive himself into thinking that this was a small group of mavericks, that his superiors were innocent of the atrocity he was watching unfold before his eyes. Things like this did not survive, did not reach such an awful degree of fruition, without support from somebody high up. No, this was a conspiracy laid deep into the foundations of the military. Even before he had the evidence, Maes knew it to be true.

And then he had the evidence. Before his eyes lay a map of Amestris—that oddly circular country—and marked in his own red pen was a circle of blood.

 _Ishval._

He had been there. He had marched in the wake of Roy Mustang's flames, wielding his rifle, mowing down countless Ishvalans. In the name of peace, he had thought at the time. In the name of unity. In the name of Amestris. With that reassuring mantra pounding in his head he had done his duty.

And all that time, he had been nothing but a pawn, some madman's dupe. While soldiers spoke of peace won through honor and bravery, their commanders dreamed of power attained by bloodshed. He and his fellow soldiers had been but instruments of that destruction. In Ishval. In Riviere, Cameron, Fiske and Wellesley. In South City and Fotset. In Pendleton. And now in Liore.

Sick though he felt, he forced himself to examine the map again. The circle was yet incomplete, for there was no incidence of massive bloodshed in the north. If—and Maes didn't think there was much of an 'if' about it, really—but if this was in fact a transmutation circle meant to enclose the entire country, it was not yet complete. And if it wasn't complete, then there was still time. The country could be saved. The pawns could still strike the king a fatal blow. He stood, hands shaking, heart pounding. There was still time, but no time to waste.

A low, almost musical chuckle sounded behind him at the same moment a shadow fell across the beam of light shining through the door to the archives. He whirled to face the intruder, already reaching for a weapon. His companion was a tall, dark woman in a low cut dress. Just above her breasts was stamped a strange tattoo the color of drying blood. Lieutenant Colonel Hughes' heart stopped, then began to beat again very fast.

There was still time.

But maybe not for him.

* * *

 **Welp that was nice and dark. I think it's the shortest theme I've written so far. As always, leave a review if you have anything you'd like to say, and drop me a PM with any suggestions/requests for future themes. The next prompt is "duty."**

 **Much love, Vic**


	15. Duty

**Hooray for actually publishing two days in a row again! Hopefully I'll be back on schedule, at least for the next two weeks.**

 **As a reward for your patience in putting up with my irregular posting and excessive angst, have some Royai office silliness!**

* * *

On any given day, the Eastern Headquarters office of Colonel Roy Mustang existed in one of two states. A visitor could walk in and find it buzzing loudly with activity and goodnatured banter: Second Lieutenants Breda and Havoc bickering over Havoc's constant smoking, Sergeant Fuery tapping furiously away at telegraph keys, Warrant Officer Falman rattling off the fruits of his latest intelligence operation. Above it all, the affected carelessness of the Colonel's complaining would harmonize strangely with Lieutenant Hawkeye's patient chastisement, building to a petulant crescendo punctuated by a heavy sigh as the Lieutenant left her incorrigible superior to sulk.

Other days, however, the office could be found as still and silent as a tomb. The smell of tobacco went unremarked upon as Jean Havoc lit up his second cigarette, and the only disturbance was the sound of pens scratching on paper. On these occasions Lieutenant Hawkeye was nowhere to be seen; it was never so quiet as when she was absent and Colonel Mustang seized his opportunity to have a nap.

Today was a day of the latter kind. Mustang had sent the First Lieutenant away on the pretext of fetching some paperwork, but the minute she had gone, he leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes. Within seconds he was either fast asleep or engaged in a very convincing imitation. Sergeant Fuery clapped a hand over his mouth the stifle the titters brought on by the sight of their fearless commander snoring with his mouth open. Breda and Havoc began whispering furiously, placing bets on how long it would take certain bits of drool to make their way from the corner of the Colonel's mouth to his chin. Falman only sighed and bent his head over his notes again; he wanted no part in this impending administrative disaster.

Fifteen or so minutes later, Lieutenant Breda was just about to let out a celebratory but quiet whoop (his money had been on under thirty seconds for this particular drop of saliva), when a squeak of alarm from Fuery and a warning hiss from Falman stopped him with his mouth hanging open. Darkening the doorway was the stern figure of Riza Hawkeye, and although her gaze was fixed on the snoring Colonel, every single one of his subordinates wilted over their work as she passed. It wasn't so much her expression as the way she walked: with light step but rigid posture, the recently-retrieved paperwork pressed to her chest, and perfectly straight beneath her crossed arms. She walked like someone with high expectations—expectations that had not been met. And although thankful that it was not they who had disappointed her, the Mustang Unit were still deeply uncomfortable at the prospect of enduring her vexation secondhand.

"Colonel."

Her voice was loud and firm, though not unkind. Mustang didn't stir. Fuery coughed nervously, then bent quickly over his radio again in case the Lieutenant was looking.

"Sir, please open your eyes," she continued, a note of exasperation creeping past her professional demeanor. "I know you're not asleep."

Mustang cracked open one eye and looked up at her coolly. Fuery coughed again. Breda chucked a piece of paper at his head.

"How do you know I'm not asleep, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, your eyes are open."

"Ah! Foiled again," the Colonel lamented blithely, swinging his feet off of the desk and standing to look out the window behind him. "But only one of my eyes was open. I expect better from you, Lieutenant."

"Yes, Sir. Now if you could please turn your attention to this paperwork..." She set down a large file folder on his desk and looked expectantly at his back.

"Paperwork?" He said the word as though he had never heard of such a thing. "I haven't the time for it."

"Excuse me, Sir, but what else do you have to do?"

Mustang glanced over his shoulder with a pained expression. "I'm a busy man."

"With all due respect, Sir, I think you are a lazy man."

"You wound me, Lieutenant," he declaimed, but threw himself back into his chair and regarded the folder in front of him morosely.

"I'm very sorry, Sir." Then, when Mustang located the dotted line and began to scribble his signature: "Sir, you have to read the document. You can't just flip to the end and sign it."

"Such a slavedriver." He turned back to the beginning of what was easily a sixty-page memo and began to skim. "What is this even about?"

"If you read it, you'd know, Sir."

"Bah! Go away, Lieutenant. I can read and sign my own name well enough without you watching me."

"Very well, Sir. I will be at my desk if you need me."

The Colonel grunted and waved his left hand in dismissal. Lieutenant Hawkeye turned around to face the rest of the room, and four curious faces immediately looked down at their desks. From Sergeant Fuery's cubicle came one more nervous cough, and then all was silent save for the intermittent sound of Colonel Mustang aggressively turning another page on the subject of East City import policies.

Riza looked down and allowed herself a small smile as she settled at her own desk and pulled out a record of confiscations of illegal firearms. Paperwork and sulky superiors were not what she had had in mind when she joined the army. But, she reflected as she stole a glance at the sulky superior in question, it wasn't such a bad job after all.

* * *

 **Ahhhhhh I love these two. I need to do something that focuses on Riza though. I feel like I always end up focusing more on Roy. She just blends so perfectly into the background but she's such a strong character ahhhhh anyway I have a lot of feelings about them. I hope you enjoyed it.**

 **Anyways. Reviews. PMs. You know the drill. Both are always more than welcome xD The next prompt is "rip."**

 **Much love, Vic**


	16. Rip

**Okay so this has got to be my shortest one yet. My sister (quickly becoming my life-saver for this project) suggested that I do something inspired by Major Armstrong's penchant for ripping his shirt off at a moment's notice. And I thought, why not take it a step further, and talk about the brotherhood FMAB was REALLY about: Armstrong and Sig Curtis bonding over their muscles? And so this silly little one-shot was born.**

* * *

Izumi Curtis hacked viciously at a leg of mutton that really didn't deserve such brutal treatment. It had been a bad day. A few regular customers had failed to show up, and as a result, a large quantity of meat would be spoiled. Sig had tolerated it with the circumspect equanimity with which he approached almost everything, but it was not in Izumi's nature to be forgiving or tolerant, so she had asked if her husband would mind the front desk while she went to the back and took out her frustration on some sheep carcasses.

Just as she succeeded in separating the leg from the rest of the meat, there was a knock on the door. Izumi set down the cleaver and wiped a bloody hand across her forehead.

"Dear," she called as she struggled with the damp knot of her pink-streaked apron, "Will you get that?"

The long staccato moans of the floorboards beneath Sig's heavy tread were his only reply. Just as Izumi resolved the knot, she heard the sound of the front door creaking open, the tinkling of the bell, and a voice she would recognize anywhere.

"Sig Curtis!"

Izumi laughed, wiping her hands on the balled-up apron and tossing it onto a stool. She ducked through the curtain separating the front and back halves of the shop to find two large, shirtless men taking up the whole front room. One was her husband. The other was Major Alex Louis Armstrong. They were in the midst of a firm handshake that somehow managed to showcase both the broad muscles of Sig's shoulders and back and the impressive definition of the Major's arms and abdomen. Izumi shook her head and gave a little chuckle.

"Hello Major Armstrong," she called over the nonverbal but nonetheless clearly pleased rumble that accounted for most of the communication between the two men. Hearing her, their guest released his friend's hand and beamed, his mustache quivering with the smile underneath.

"Izumi Curtis!" he boomed, crossing the entire space in one stride and sweeping her up in a bone-crushing and muscly hug that, for all her strength and training, still caught her off guard. "How wonderful to see you looking so well!"

"Thank you, Major, that's quite enough," she wheezed, trying to wriggle free from his grasp. "Dear, do something!"

But Sig only chuckled as his wife glared and the Major continued to wax eloquent about her radiance and his joy at beholding it. Finally he released her and set her once more on the floor. Breathless and feeling slightly out of joint, Izumi nonetheless could not be angry with him, and only stopped to straighten her tunic before beginning conversation once more.

"What brings you to this part of the country?" she asked, while Sig resumed his normal place behind her, arms bulging as he crossed them over his bare chest. "Government work?"

"I am on leave, actually," rumbled the large officer, his shoulders almost glistening in the sunlight that streamed through the front window. "I thought I might pay a visit."

"Well of course. You are always welcome here, Major." Izumi smiled while Sig nodded behind her.

"You are too kind, Izumi," Armstrong said with a bow. "I am very grateful for your hospitality."

"Ah," she exclaimed in reply, waving her hand airily, "What else is there for a housewife to do but entertain guests?"

The Major chuckled his approval and threw his discarded jacket over his shoulder.

"Still, I must show my thanks somehow," he proclaimed. "What service can I render by my presence?"

Izumi frowned momentarily; she was not in the habit of requiring help from anybody. Not a second later, however, a slow smile was spreading across her face.

"Major Armstrong," she said slowly, glancing at the back room, where all the unfulfilled meat orders were still sitting, "How hungry are you?"

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed! Of course Major Armstrong has a legendary appetite that has been passed down in his family for generations, so Izumi's challenge shouldn't be too much of a problem for him ;) Sorry there have been a lot of short ones recently; I'll try and do something longer this weekend!**

 **As always, reviews, PMs, yadayadayada you're probably sick of hearing me say it xD The next prompt is "missing time."**

 **Much love, Vic**


	17. Missing Time

**So I had a couple ideas for this one, but settled on a Team Greed 2.0 one-shot from the time skip between Ed's injury in the fight with Kimblee and the beginning of the Promised Day. GreedLing is fun to write, as is Ed being belligerent xD**

* * *

"I'm so hungry!"

"Shuddup runt!"

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING A MINISCULE BEAN SO SMALL HE FITS BETWEEN THE TREADS OF YOUR BOOTS?!"

"Nobody called you that! Just stop whining!"

"Oh so it's okay when you just show up out of Xing one day and eat an entire city's worth of food on my dime, but now _I_ can't be hungry?"

"Don't yell at me for things that Ling guy did, midget!"

"STOP CALLING ME SHORT!"

Two large men looked bleakly across a small table at each other as the squabble in the other room escalated to a fever pitch.

"Should we just let them kill each other?" Darius asked, looking at his friend over the two beefy fingers he was using to massage the pain beginning to erupt between his eyeballs.

Heinkel laughed bitterly. "Fullmetal wouldn't stand a chance. I don't wanna be stuck here with Greed."

"I don't know about that," Darius mulled over the sound of Ed's growing rage ("I'M GONNA WIPE THAT GRIN OFF YOUR WEIRD-ASS FACE, HOMUNCULUS BASTARD!"). "If he manages to shatter Greed's eardrums he might stand a chance."

"You're thinking of _your_ eardrums, idiot. Homunculi can regenerate."

"Hey, watch who you're calling idiot. If Ed wasn't still recovering from his wound, I think it could be a fair fight."

"Not a chance. Greed's got the ultimate shield!"

"He's the Fullmetal _Alchemist_ , Heinkel. I'm pretty sure he's got a few tricks of his own up his sleeve."

"Okay fine. But he's still recovering from being _impaled_."

"That's why I said if he _wasn't_ still recovering. Why don't you ever listen to me?"

"Because you're just saying nonsense, Darius. If you ever said anything sensible, I might listen."

"I'm being sensible. Didn't Fullmetal say he beat Greed in a fight once before, in his old body?"

"Yeah, but this Ling guy is a friend of his. He couldn't kill Greed without killing his pal."

Darius threw up his arms in defeat and sat heavily back in his chair. Ed was shrieking inarticulately while Greed laughed.

"God, will they ever shut up?"

"I'm pretty sure yelling is Ed's life force," Heinkel said, his voice the color of morose resignation. "He won't stop until he's yelled at every single person in the world, probably."

Darius chuckled humorlessly. "So they're really a perfect match, after all. Once Greed owns the whole world, Edward can yell at it."

"Nobody yells at my possessions but me."

Greed's cool, hard voice cut through the air like a knife, and although the two chimeras had long since ceased to consider him a threat, they still whirled around, hackles rising instinctively at the sound of his voice. The homunculus inhabited the Xingese prince's body with a kind of menacing languidness, and was leaning, arms crossed, against the doorframe, regarding them impassively through his narrow maroon eyes.

"I'm the boss around here now, remember?" he continued—not threatening, just matter-of-fact. "I tell you what to do. I get to yell at you if you're slacking. The Fullmetal brat doesn't. He works for me too. And the same will go for the world, once it's mine."

Darius and Heinkel looked swiftly away, trying to choke back their laughter. Though Greed's power was intimidating, his ambitions were ridiculous, and they all knew he didn't really have a plan. He just wanted things. That was the downside, it seemed, to being a homunculus. In Greed's case, the two chimeras had come to understand, there was nothing to him but his desire for everything. He had no pride, no anger, no physical appetites to move him. He was utterly one dimensional, and thus despite his single powerful urge, there was no other aspect of his being to move him forward. So they sat, day after day, in the back rooms of the house of a North City doctor, listening to Greed dream about being king of the world until someone (usually Ed) got fed up and yelled at him.

"You got it, boss," Darius answered him, once he could keep a straight face. "But good luck stopping Ed from yelling at anything."

Greed waved an indifferent hand. "If he yells at anything, it'll be because I let him."

Heinkel smirked. Darius bit back another burst of laughter. Ed's incensed muttering continued to drift in from the room across the hall.

"So what were you two brutes talking about just now?" Greed was clearly not particularly interested in their response; his question was just another casual means of asserting his dominance.

"Oh nothing," Darius responded in a similar tone of carelessness. "Just wondering if you or Ed would win in a fight."

Greed let out a disdainful laugh. "I could beat the Fullmetal runt in a fight any day."

"WHAT?!" Ed's voice erupted through the whole building like an bomb exploding. "COME IN HERE AND SAY THAT TO MY FACE YOU FREAK OF NATURE! I KICKED YOUR ASS ONCE, I CAN DO IT AGAIN!"

Heinkel shot Darius a look of weary exasperation. "You just had to say something, didn't you?"

The gorilla-man ignored him and returned to nursing the pain between his eyes.

The Promised Day could not come soon enough.

* * *

 **hehehehe the problem with humor is that you never know if you're actually funny or not but this was fun to write so *shrugs***

 **Drop me a review or a PM with any comments/critiques/suggestions/requests! The next prompt is "crest."**

 **Much love, Vic**


	18. Crest

**So. That awkward moment when the prompt is "crest," and the most prominent FMA correlation you can think of is "crest of blood." Welcome to hell: otherwise known as the massacres at Liore :/**

 **I'm bumping up the rating for the story as of now. That doesn't mean I will write more things of this caliber, but I don't want to catch anyone by surprise because I left the story at a K+ rating. Hand in hand with that, I'm attaching some warnings to this chapter in particular:**

 **Trigger Warnings: Guns/general Violence. Allusions to Suicide.**

* * *

It was a hot, still summer night. Grey dust danced in the weak light of a flickering candle, settling on the wood of the cradle that sat in the corner, as far from the door as possible. A sneeze and a thin wail rose up from the shelter of the cradle, and what had appeared to be nothing but a pile of rags on the floor beside it suddenly took shape, revealing a young woman with dark hair and a dirty face. She knelt by the side of the cradle, lifting the infant to her shoulder and holding it close, murmuring wordless noises of comfort. She hoped it could hear her voice over the sound of screams.

The child was not hers. Children in Liore belonged to nobody and everybody now; it was the only comfort afforded to parents who knew they might not live to see the sun rise another day—that somebody like Rose might take their child and keep it safe until it was her time to die.

They were all going to die. That was the only certainty. You might be found on your stomach with a bullet in your back. You might simply fall asleep and never wake up, whether from thirst or hunger or simple exhaustion. You might disappear in the fiery blast of a grenade. It might be tomorrow. It might be next week. It might be next second. But it would happen. Some eventually went out to meet the guns with a resignation that smacked of bitter welcome. Rose would not be one of those; she would flee death as long as she had legs to run on. She knew as well as any other citizen of Liore that she would die, but it would not be tonight. She clutched the child more tightly to her chest and began to rock her. No. She would not die tonight.

The gut-wrenching hiss of grenades—the forerunners of bayonet-wielding foot soldiers—whistled by too near to the tiny shack where Rose hid. In the empty moment before the explosion, she knew she had no time to escape, only to blow out the candle and throw herself to the ground, shielding the infant's body with her own. Then there was an earth-shattering _boom_ and a wave of heat that seemed to burn the clothes right off her back. The baby shrieked, whether from terror or discomfort Rose knew not. It was probably both. They were still alive, and when Rose finally chanced a look around, there appeared to be no sign of fire or damage to their tiny abode. But the heavy rumble of boots on paving stones began to shake the ground beneath her, and she shrank further into her corner, pulling the cradle in front of her, turning her back to the door—the thin wood and her thin flesh the only protection she could offer to the baby still wailing in her arms. As the rumble drew nearer, she placed her finger in the child's mouth, praying—to whom she neither knew nor cared—that it would serve as a sufficient means of soothing the baby's cries. New, sharp teeth that only just cut the surface of tiny pink gums dug into her fingertip, but Rose hardly felt the pain. The child was quiet, and that meant they might survive.

Every tramp of steel toes stopped her heart as she wondered if, this time, they would stop in front of her door. If the wood would shatter at the impact of a merciless foot, or if the order would simply sound to release a hail of bullets, just in case someone was inside. She had chosen this place because it was tiny, tucked in the shadows of two buildings twice or three times its size. You hardly even noticed it unless you were looking. But these soldiers were looking—God knew why—and they shot first and shot later; there were no questions asked.

Gunfire.

Rose screwed her eyes shut and waited, ready at every second for a burst of warm pain in her back. The baby bit too hard and drew blood, beginning to cry once more as the taste of metal filled her mouth. Rose pressed her face hard against her chest and held her own breath, hoping neither of them would suffocate.

The gunshots began to taper out, but it was no blessing, for without the sound of guns, there was nothing to mask the screams that rose anew from fresh pools of blood. And worse even than the screams were the voices of the living pleading with the dead. Husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, daughters and sons, begging those who lay still beside them to wake up, to live, to hang on just a moment longer. Those too would fade eventually, and as the moans of the dying turned to the silence of the tomb, everything else was swallowed up in one perpetual cry of anguish, of an entire city keening to the sky. Somewhere—somewhere close by, a child wailed, and the baby in Rose's arms sent up a sympathetic cry that seemed too loud, too close, too strong. Only when a hot tear raced down her cheek did Rose realize the sound was coming from her as well. She and the two children lifted up their voices with the entire city of Liore, and threw their grief out onto a world that did not care.

Gradually, the baby's cries dwindled to hiccups, and Rose's eyes grew heavy and dry. Outside, however, the other child was still crying. So Rose fashioned a sling out of one of the rags that made up her bed and tucked the one against her breast while she ventured out to seek the other.

She did not have to go far. Only yards away from the door lay the shriveled body of an elderly woman. One knee was tucked up under her, the other stretched out, as though she were still running, even in death. Tucked into the curve of one frail arm sat a little boy, no more than one year old. He did not call to the woman, or reach out to touch her or try to rouse her. He only sat there, in the ghost of her embrace, and screamed. There was blood on his face, but—thank God, Rose thought—it was not his own. She came around the woman's body and crouched before the boy. She remained like that for some minutes, but he paid her no heed, just continued to scream. Finally, Rose dared reach out with the hand she wasn't using to support the baby in the sling and touch his face. The moment her fingertips made contact with his cheek, he stopped. It was as though Rose had cast a spell over him, or perhaps as if all he had wanted was to know that he was not the only one left alive in the whole world. He looked gravely at her out of dark eyes utterly devoid of tears, and Rose knew with sickening certainty that this was not the first death he had seen. It took all her willpower not to turn and vomit in the street.

Once she had composed herself, she stood on shaking legs and extended her hand once more to help the boy up. He took it silently, and followed her without protest back to the little alleyway shanty. It would be safer there now that the soldiers had come through. They were there to kill; there was no point in returning to a place where everybody was already dead. By the light of the re-lit candle she wiped the boy's face with an almost-clean rag and gave him a drink of water. Once he had had his fill, she lifted him into her lap, where he sat like a dead weight, while she cradled the baby girl in her other arm.

"Would you like to hold her?"

They were the first words she had spoken out loud in what seemed like years. The boy did not reply, but held out his arms obediently, accepting the bundle that was too tiny to be a child of six months. And for the first time, something in him softened. His shoulders slumped, his eyelids drooped. He began to make little noises at the pale, crabbed face peering out of the blankets. Soon, he weighed heavy once more on Rose's thin legs, but it was the weight of a sleeping child, not of death and sorrow. Small as they both were, Rose managed to tuck them side by side into the cradle, and as she watched, the boy curled protectively around the little girl, one arm still resting on her stomach. They were peaceful. Rose felt her eyes grow wet once more with tears too full of meaning for her to articulate.

She fell to her knees. She could not stand any more tonight.

To the East, however, the sun was rising.

* * *

 **Am I a bad person if I say I'm proud of this? It's not that I enjoyed it, but idk...I think I wrote well. And I think it's important to explore the truly dark themes that FMA presents for our consideration: not gratuitously, but to learn and understand and, most importantly, to learn hope, to learn to stand in spite of everything.**

 **Reviews are, as always, gladly welcomed. PMs with suggestions or requests are encouraged! I don't always have inspiration haha. The next prompt is "itch" and I PROMISE it will be happy.**

 **Much love, Vic**


	19. Itch

**So I realized I hadn't updated in forever, but I had this half-finished doc in my drafts, and it's the weekend, so I figured I'd finish it off and post it. It's not my best, but have some Riza and Black Hayate fluff!**

* * *

Everything in First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye's life was painfully well ordered. Her guns were always cleaned, her uniform always pressed; her file folders carefully labeled and her boots shiny. Her hair was always neat, always identical to the way it was the day before. Her apartment was clean, and her dog was impeccably trained.

That was why it was so surprising when she came home one day to find Black Hayate on the floor, whining and rolling around on his back. Her pretty china lamp that had been a gift from Rebecca lay in pieces on the floor beside the end table. Both the floorboards and the table leg were covered in clinging strands of white and black hair. The hair, she discovered on closer examination, was everywhere. She was fairly certain she had already breathed in a great deal of it in the fifteen seconds since she'd opened the door. And Black Hayate had not stood to attention at her entrance. He remained on the rug, writhing and moaning piteously.

Waving a particularly ticklish bit of floating dog hair away from her nose, she briefly left the room and set the pile of paperwork she had brought home down on the small kitchen table. Then she returned to the living area, and crouched in front her pet, forehead creased with worry. Black Hayate rolled up onto his feet for a moment only to drop back down with a whine and begin rubbing his back against the stiff fabric of her uniform. Riza didn't scold him, only laid a hand on top of his head and scratched gently, to which the suffering creature released a moan of such piteous relief that his mistress felt a lump rise in her throat.

"What happened to you, boy?" she murmured, as she moved her hand down to scratch his neck beneath the collar and his eyes practically rolled back in his head with desperate pleasure. "What's wrong?"

He opened his eyes; they were wide and wet and silently pleading her to help him. His tongue lolled out of one corner of his mouth, interspersing his quiet whimpers with heavy panting that turned to one long breathless sigh as her hand moved down once more to scratch along his spine.

When she drew her hand away, it was covered in loose hairs, and the undersides of her fingernails were clogged with dirty dark specks. Black Hayate never shed this much, and Riza kept him incredibly clean. She frowned, working the dirt out from under her nails, and stood. Black Hayate whined again, a weak, high-pitched noise that Riza would never have allowed under normal circumstances. This time, however, she only looked back at him, concern softening the lines of her face as she picked up the phone and began to dial.

"Hello?"

"Fuery? It's Riza."

"Riza?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Fuery. Riza Hawkeye. We work together."

"I know that," he squeaked, indignant, ever literal. "What do you want? Er, that is—" Riza could hear him blanching—"What can I do for you ma'am?"

A soft whine from the other end of the room distracted her for a moment, and it almost broke her heart to look up and see her dog scratching violently behind his ear, moaning all the while. Riza chewed her lip and returned her attention to the phone call.

"I think Black Hayate is sick."

Oddly enough, this problem seemed to put Fuery immediately more at ease.

"What's wrong?" His voice was business-like and self-assured.

"Well he's scratching a lot," she said, brow furrowing as she looked up once more at her pet. "And if he weren't a dog I'd say it almost seemed like he was crying. He can't seem to help himself. And when I scratched behind his ears, there were black specks that came off on my hands."

Fuery gave a little chuckle.

"What?" Riza didn't mean to snap, but she also didn't see what was funny.

"Nothing," Fuery said, and Riza could hear his smile through the phone. "Black Hayate will be fine. He just has fleas."

"WHAT?!" Riza exclaimed, this time not in anger, but in horror.

"It happens sometimes, Riza, don't worry." She scowled at his cheerful, placating tone. "Bring him by my apartment; I'll get something to clear it right up."

"All right," she replied meekly, and hung up.

Black Hayate was still whining, but he seemed too tired to scratch anymore. Riza scooped him up and cradled him gently in her arms, rubbing the top of his head until he relaxed a bit.

"Come on boy," she murmured. "We're going to go get you better."

Riza held him in her arms the whole way to Fuery's apartment, crooning encouragements. When they arrived, Fuery lifted him from her grasp and set him on the table, scratching the top of his head with one finger.

"Poor boy. Let's get rid of those nasty fleas."

He procured a bottle from a nearby cabinet and unscrewed the lid, releasing fumes so pungent that the inside of Riza's nose felt suddenly both hot and cold, and her eyes began to water a bit. But when Fuery began to massage the ointment into Black Hayate's fur, the little dog heaved an almighty cross between a gasp and a sigh, and visibly relaxed for the first time since Riza had come home.

"You'll have to apply that every day for a couple weeks," Fuery said when he was finished. "But after that, he'll be totally clean."

Riza flashed him a tight-lipped but genuine smile.

"Thank you," she said. Then, to Black Hayate, "Come, boy."

But he only looked up at her with dark, soulful eyes. She sighed.

"Okay. But only this once more," she warned, trying to hide her smile as she picked him up and carried him out the door.

* * *

 **Well I don't know when I'll be posting again, but as always, please let me know what you think, and if you have any comments, suggestions or requests, just shoot me a PM!**

 **The next prompt is "explode." Oh boy.**

 **Vic**


	20. Explode

**Believe it or not, this is actually the same idea I've had for this prompt ever since the last time I updated (forever ago). I just never wrote it. But I finished TYD and suddenly I just wanted to write more.  
**

 **So, here it is, my finally realized take on "explode."**

* * *

"Can anyone tell me the meaning of the word 'eccentric'?"

Several hands shot up at once as the teacher surveyed the classroom over her wiry spectacles. She called on none of those eager minds, but, looking severely at a group of boys lounging in the back and snickering amongst themselves, she cleared her throat and addressed the lanky ringleader who seemed to have made the amusing remark.

"Mr. Schneider. Can you give me the definition?"

The boy straightened up in his seat, glanced sideways at his companions, and smirked.

"Riza's dad?"

Muffled laughter erupted into guffaws and shrieks of laughter from the joker's posse, and the rest of the class permitted themselves a small giggle or a suppressed smile. The teacher pursed her lips.

"Thank you, Mr Schneider. But I asked for a definition, not an example."

More laughter, and Riza Hawkeye stared down at her desk with clenched teeth. She had long since ceased to hope for any ally in the woman who stood at the front of the classroom. By now she knew that the other children in the village absorbed their attitude towards her and her father from the adults in their lives. The only difference was how well they concealed it. And in truth, by now she didn't really mind the mockery, the whispers, the sidelong looks.

What she really hated was how they reminded her of how, in those moments, she too despised her father for not being more normal.

. . .

Riza walked out of the schoolhouse with her head held high, and looked straight ahead as she ran the gauntlet of boys who liked to line the stairs and the pathway to snatch girls' books and make crude comments.

"Hey Riza," called one burly boy who had laughed at Schneider's wisecracks, "Why don't you come home with me? You bring the hot, I'll bring the heavy!"

"Hey Riza, why don't you show us that saucy little tattoo of yours?"

"Hey Riza, you sure got me burning up!"

She set her face and kept walking. Schneider was leaning against a tree a little bit away from the rest of his gang. As she drew nearer he pushed himself effortlessly upright and sauntered onto the path directly in front of her. He opened his palms and cocked his head at the boys behind her.

"I'm so sorry about them," he said in a fair imitation of sincerity. "Why don't you let me walk you home?" He took a step closer and leaned in close to whisper in her ear. "It's not safe for a girl like you to be out alone."

She lifted her chin, and tried to push past him, but he grabbed her arm and squeezed hard. The other boys hooted and whistled.

"What's wrong, Riza?" he breathed viciously. "Afraid Daddy will be jealous?"

Her nostrils flared and she ripped her arm from his grasp. He let her go, leering.

"That's right," he shouted. "Run home to Daddy!"

The laughter ringing behind her didn't burn quite as much as the tears that pooled in her eyes.

. . .

As Riza approached the fence surrounding her father's considerable property, she caught a glimpse of an unfamiliar profile through the front window. Frowning, she ran her middle fingers under her eyes to remove any evidence of tears, lifted the latch, and approached the front door. Closer to the house she could see that the stranger was speaking earnestly to her father, who listened with folded arms and an impassive expression that was the happiest he ever looked. Even as she watched, that expression morphed into a pronounced frown.

The door swung open with a long creak, and she walked into the dining room to greet her father and his guest.

The stranger turned, and Riza's eyes widened slightly before she could help herself. He was a young man, maybe five years older than herself, full-faced but striking, with black hair, pale skin, and dark, intelligent eyes that seemed to take her in at a single glance.

"Ah yes," said Berthold Hawkeye without much interest, "Roy, this is my daughter. Riza, this is Roy Mustang. My new apprentice."

The words were not said with outright distaste, but the inflection he gave to the word "apprentice" implied very strongly to Riza that he was somehow being forced into this very much against his will. The young man nodded to her.

"A pleasure to meet you," he said, and as he lifted his head, he flashed her a roguish smile that, much to her alarm, made her blush like no lewd comment from the boys at school ever had.

She returned his nod, then turned and left the room as quickly as she could without appearing to flee.

She was still blushing.

. . .

Despite the fact that Roy was, supposedly, her father's apprentice, he seemed to spend most of his time sitting at the kitchen table alone with a book in front of him. And, Riza noticed, he seemed very rarely to be reading the book in question, but rather doodling transmutation circles in the margins. Perhaps he worked with Berthold mainly while Riza was at school, but sometimes she got the feeling that Roy had simply moved into their house hoping to absorb flame alchemy just by breathing the same air as the famed master.

As she grew more used to his presence, Riza began to join him at the table when she got home, he with his alchemic theory, she with her homework. He was an odd companion, often picking up her pencil after he put his own down, or drinking out of her teacup while knocking his own all over her notebooks. He never seemed to notice, or, if he did, he didn't seem to think anything was strange about it. And she would sigh and think how very like her father this odd young man could be.

Nevertheless, she found that the time she spent with him passed with a sweetness she had not known since she was very small. His focus inspired her, seemed to pass from him to her with a crackle that made the air hum, and her grades, which had always been fair, soared to the head of the class. It wasn't that she cared any more than she had previously about algebra, or history, or poetry, but that she derived an energy from him that pushed her to excel.

Her new academic prowess, however gratifying, also made her an even greater target for her classmates' vitriol. The ones who had previously kept silent, generally thinking themselves above such gossip, began to jeer at her.

"Who does she think she is?"

"She thinks she's better than us."

"Well, like father, like daughter."

And every day, Schneider was waiting at the end of the path to lean in and offer to walk her home.

"I hear Daddy's sharing you now," he whispered. "He wouldn't mind sharing with me too, would he?"

. . .

After a few months, Riza's time with her father's apprentice moved from silent companionship to conversation. She had long been curious about the arrays Roy would doodle in the margins of his books, she who had always avoided taking any interest in her father's work. One day, having finished her work, she sat and watched him draw, fine tune, erase and remake the same circle ten times over. She must have been staring at him for over half and hour, but he never looked up, and he seemed genuinely surprised to even see her there when she finally broke the silence and asked, "What are you trying to do with that transmutation circle?"

Surprised, but not displeased, as her father might have been. His eyes seemed to dance with sparks at the chance to explain his labors.

"I have this theory," he whispered earnestly. "I think that, if I can ever master the secret of flame alchemy, like Master Hawkeye—" he nodded his head slightly in deference even when mentioning her father's name— "I will be able to design a… 'portable' version, if you will, that captures all the essentials, and is small enough to fit on the back of a glove."

She tilted her head to one side. "Why a glove?"

He grinned, brought his right hand up to her face, and snapped his fingers.

" _Spontaneous combustion_ ," he breathed triumphantly. "With just a flick of the wrist. A glove made of the right material could generate enough friction to spark."

Riza stared. His round, boyish face blazed with foreseen successes, and, though he was inviting her to bask in the light, her back crawled with chills.

From then on, they talked almost constantly in the evenings, sometimes about his studies, sometimes about hers. He would throw out ideas for fabric conductors, she would work through equations or read aloud her latest essay. Roy was a surprisingly good proofreader and a surprisingly bad math tutor. He had a compelling rhetorical style that she felt certain was ninety percent responsible for her high composition scores. He never wrote a single word of her papers for her, but his insightful comments and probing questions elevated both her thought and style to levels she hadn't known she could reach. And of course, she couldn't help developing a style in some ways similar to his own. Hers was more blunt, less eloquent than his, and she thought privately that her directness was an improvement on his somewhat dramatic tendencies, but beneath that she found a basis of integrity and honesty upon which she felt confident drawing.

The downside of their growing friendship she did not realize until it came suddenly upon her. It had not occurred to her that their intellectual intimacy might bleed over into a more personal one. Not the kind that Schneider so poisonously insinuated, but one that Riza found nearly as invasive.

One day, she came home particularly shaken by the cruelty of her classmates, and the moment Roy looked at her, his eyes narrowed.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She looked at him, startled and flushing.

"Nothing!" she said too vehemently.

He shrugged, said, "Okay," and looked back down at his book.

This too startled her, and she settled uneasily into her customary seat across the table from him. She was just beginning to think that he really had dropped it when he spoke again.

"Riza, do you have any friends?"

She blinked, feeling that she really should be offended by the question, but unable to think of any response except "You're my friend."

"No, no," he said dismissively, glancing up at her. "I mean any friends at school."

"School is for learning," she responded, stiff-sounding even to her own ears, "not for making friends."

Her words seemed to genuinely amuse him, and he smiled wryly at her. "I wasn't aware the two were mutually exclusive."

Stung by what she perceived as a shade of condescension in his manner, she changed tactics.

"You must have realized by now—" she went to great lengths to keep her tone impassive, scientific even— "that my father is not very popular in the village. By association, neither is his daughter."

Roy didn't bother to question her statement.

"Does that bother you?" he asked.

Riza blinked again, her carefully affected equilibrium thrown by the uncharacteristic softness of his tone.

"No," she says automatically, then, "Yes. I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Only if it bothers you," he says in his more usual, cryptic voice. "So I've been thinking of trying felt. You know. For the gloves…"

. . .

Winter came, and with the colder weather came increased torment from Schneider and his gang, who, when cooped up inside, had fewer outlets for their malicious energy. In some ways, Riza reflected with a shameful degree of self-interest, this was good for her, as their worsening mood took itself out on everybody, and even the teacher could not tolerate them quite so much. They were reprimanded more often during school hours, and though this intensified the cruelty of their end-of-day taunts, those still only lasted as long as it took her to walk the distance from the schoolhouse to the main road. And no matter how provoking they were—especially Schneider—Riza was always careful to let no trace of it show on her face when she got home.

One afternoon, when it seemed like everyone in the building had run out of patience, Riza let herself hurry a little bit more than normal. Schneider had been made to stand at the board and write lines for getting too mouthy with the teacher, and he would be in a foul mood. She managed to make it out the door before he did, but he strode after her with an energy he rarely allowed himself to expend.

"Hey Riza," he sing-songed as he crossed the school yard. "Let me walk you home. We can keep each other warm."

Riza kept walking, struggling to keep her pace even as her heart pounded with dread.

"Riza—" his tone grew softer and more wheedling as his long strides closed the gap between them— "Come on, baby, I know you want me."

Almost to the main road, and impatient with cold and disgust, Riza took a risk she never had before, and might not have that day had she realized how close behind her he really was.

"No, Schneider," she shouted without looking back, "I really don't."

He stopped in his tracks for a moment, pale with fury, then closed the gap between them and closed his long fingers on her arm like a vise.

"Listen, you sl—"

"Hey, asshole!"

Out from behind the tree where Schneider normally lounged stepped Roy Mustang. He inserted himself between Riza and her antagonist and raised his right hand as if to strike the boy. Stopping his hand millimeters from Schneider's nose, however, he snapped his fingers right beneath it, there was a noise like a small firecracker, and Schneider reeled backwards, howling.

It turned out later that little actual damage had been done, and Schneider reacted more from shock than anything. The worst he suffered was an ashy face and some very singed nose hairs, but to the students who crowded outside to see what was going on it looked very much like the strange young man had blown up Schneider's face.

And for Roy and his clumsy white felt gloves with the meticulously embroidered transmutation circles, it was as great a triumph as he could have wished for. His face now blazed with realized success, and in the flush of victory, he flung his arm around Riza and stared defiantly at his audience of teenagers. She, however, shrugged off his arm as violently as she might have Schneider's, and hurried through the gate. He jogged to catch up, and turned to face her in the middle of the road, but she pushed past him.

"Why did you do that?" she demanded without looking at him.

Caught off guard, Roy had no answer, and he stammered for perhaps the first time in his acquaintance with the alchemist's daughter.

"I don't need you to protect me," she continued, thickly but forcefully.

He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and fell in step beside her.

"I know," he said, totally in possession of himself once more. "I didn't protect you because I thought you needed it."

It was her turn to stop in the middle of the road. "Why, then?"

He stopped too, but only half turned to look at her. "Because I wanted to."

He kept walking. She stood for a moment, flushing for an entirely different reason than she had been only moments previously, then hurried to catch up with him.

"I can't believe you actually got those gloves to work! How did you do it?"

He smirked. They walked on together.

* * *

 **Hooray for Royai! :D  
**

 **Next prompt is "rise." Hopefully I'll get it done a little sooner than this one.**


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